


What Will Be Will Be

by Aleta123



Category: Bridget Jones's Baby, Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types, Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 21:42:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12141756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aleta123/pseuds/Aleta123
Summary: All shags and no talks makes BriMark an endangered species. This movies universe story is set between the horribly disappointing Edge Of Reason and warmly satisfying Bridget Jones’s Baby. My notes are slightly story-spoilery so best to read at the end. DISCLAIMER: It's Helen Fielding's world, I just borrow it at times.





	1. Chapter 1

**Friday 19 December**

_9st 2 (one McDonald’s and am now baby elephant!), alcohol units 5 (Not bad. will reward self with some plonk at tonight’s party), cigarettes 6 (have practically become non-smoker), calories 1881 (too many takeaways), make up shags 1 (workaholic fiancé cancelled dinner at last minute. Yet again - not v.g)._

**4.25 pm. My flat.**

Sit Up Britain’s Christmas party tonight - v. excited! Firstly, Mark Darcy’s coming as my plus one. Secondly, venue is best news ever; we’ll be eating, drinking and partying at Iddy’s in Cathedral Street. If sober, is only a three-minute walk from my flat; if pissed as a fart, is only an 11-minute walk. Hurrah!  
  
Strange to think can get v. merry and not worry about:  
  
a) Falling out of cab.  
  
b) Vomiting in cab.  
  
c) Vomiting in cab all over mortified fiancé who still hasn’t forgotten or forgiven self’s sickeningly (no pun intended) accurate impression of famous spewing scene in The Exorcist. Honestly, it was two years ago! Can’t believe he still brings it up (no pun intended).  
  
It’s not as if he’s perfect – still bloody annoyed about last night. Went all the way to Hampstead because of rave reviews for new Japanese restaurant Mark wanted to try only for work to get in the way of yet another date.  
  
Was starving, but couldn’t face eating there alone so I popped into a McDonald’s for a v. unhappy meal. Felt every calorie with every bite - bet my thighs are four inches bigger today.  
  
Shit night. Not even apology after apology and make up sex made up for it.  
  
However, am giddy about our fast approaching fifth anniversary. Secretly hoping it snows as am planning to recreate our first kiss as a special surprise. Main difference is this time, in order not to freeze my arse off, will wear beige cropped leggings over the tiger-print knickers to mimic bare legs.  
  
Also, am not running all the way from here. Instead, will arrange to meet him outside the stationary shop and, after walking majority of the way, will run up to him and snog him silly.

Dragged on my fag. Love the lovely feeling of smoking openly. Shit! Just realised I need to make sure Mark’s wearing a big coat, preferably the same one. How am I going to do that? Hmmmm. That will be a challenge for—  
  
Oooh goody, telephone!

**4.48 pm.**

Was Mum.  
  
“Oh, hello darling,” she trilled. “What are you doing home on a Friday afternoon?”  
  
“Day off today,” I replied. “You’re the one who’s called me so why are you asking me why I’ve answered the phone?”  
  
“I didn’t mean to call you, silly. I meant to ring Una. I wasn’t thinking of you, I was thinking of her.”  
  
“Oh.” Thanks, Mum. Now feel about as loved as a cold caller flogging life insurance.  
  
“But now that I’ve got you,” she went on, “how’s Mark?”  
  
“He’s good. Working hard. As usual. How’s Dad?”  
  
“He’s well. We’re both looking forward to seeing you and Mark over Christmas.”  
  
“And we’re both looking forward to that too.” I lied so smoothly, Daniel would be proud of me.  
  
“Pity the Darcys can’t make it.”  
  
“Yes, it is. Mark said they're on a Mediterranean winter cruise. They'll be back in the New Year.”  
  
“Did I tell you we’re planning a surprise to celebrate you and Mark’s fifth anniversary?”  
  
I rolled my eyes. “No, you didn’t. But isn’t the point of a surprise is that it’s a surprise? If you tell me what the surprise is, it isn’t a surprise anymore.”  
  
“Durr! I’m not going to tell you what it is. What makes you think I’d ruin the surprise?” she said in a tone implying I was moronic for believing she'd do such a heinous thing. “I’m just letting you know that we’re planning one.”  
  
Wearily (and warily), I said, “Promise you won’t hire any entertainment this year, Mum. We’re still not over what happened on Boxing Day last year.”  
  
“How that agency confused singing waiters with erotic dancers is beyond me,” she tutted.  
  
“Still can’t get the image of Mark putting Penny Husbands-Bosworth in the recovery position out of my mind.”  
  
“Well, she’d never seen one man in a thring—”  
  
“Thong.”  
  
“—before, let alone three. It seems all those rumours about black men are true! It looked like he had Nelson’s Column in his underwear; every time he thrusted, I thought he was going to hit us in the face with it. No wonder Penny Husbands-Bosworth fainted.”  
  
“Mother!” I cried in dismay. “You can’t say that. It’s racist.”  
  
“Penny Husbands-Bosworth is racist?”  
  
“No. Saying that black men have big . . . that they’re well-endowed is racist.”  
  
“Don’t be silly, darling. It can’t be racist if it’s true and it can’t be racist if it’s a compliment,” she reasoned.  
  
I tried again. “Mum, you really don’t have to do anything for our anniversary.”  
  
“At the rate you and Mark are going, this is all we’ll ever be doing,” she said waspishly. “I’d like to buy a hat sooner rather than later, Bridget.”  
  
“Marriage isn’t everything, you know.” Pathetic. But it’s all I had in my arsenal. Felt like a soldier going into war with a gun made of chocolate. I wasn’t properly armed and the enemy made mincemeat of me.  
  
“Marriage isn’t everything?” she exclaimed in shock. I swear I also heard a blood vessel burst. “Balderdash! It’s the only thing when the fiancé is someone like Mark Darcy. I honestly do not understand why I’m still waiting for this wedding. What more do I have to do, Bridget? I set you up with a perfectly eligible bachelor who is very well off and—”

I stayed silent as she carried on ranting.  
  
“You young people, you think marriage is a dirty word. When Daddy proposed to me, we were married eight months later.”  
  
“I know, Mum. You tell me this every Christmas.”  
  
“And have you taken note this time? Because I hope it’s the last time I have to say it.”  
  
“Me too.” At least we agree firmly on that point.  
  
“Right. Better dash as I have to ring Una and visit the butcher. See you soon, darling.”  
  
Sigh.  
  
Maybe kiss recreation will spark some magic and help to move me and Mark forward. We love each other and we still have amazing sex, but outside of the bedroom, increasingly feel like it’s just me in this relationship. I know his work is very important, but I have to be just as important to him too.  
  
Am also getting sick and tired of dodging questions about marriage from Mum, from his parents, from Smug Married friends and even from Daniel – who obviously has ulterior motives for digging into my relationship with Mark.  
  
Funny thing is it’s all so ironic: the two main loves of my life are both excellent in bed yet each, in their own way, have turned out to be Bridget-Jones-commitment-phobics. One because he shags anything that moves, the other because he’s already married . . . to his job.  
  
It’s not as if I didn’t see the warning signs in both cases: I mean, who the bloody hell takes work with them for a spot of boating on a lake?  
  
After my Thai misadventure, was determined to count my blessings. Always in Mark’s favour is I know he will never do what Daniel did. We’ve both had our hearts broken by cheaters, we both know how devastating that feels and we will never do that to each other.  
  
I still want to be with Mark because he really does love me, just as I am, and I love him too. But feel like am treading water compared to Jude (who'd have thought she'd be married with two kids and pregnant with third? Milo and Poppy are gorgeous. Self has adorable godchildren) and Shazzer (married and pregnant with twins. More godchildren for the collection!).  
  
At least Tom’s still around. Having said that, he’s so loved-up with new boyfriend Eduardo, it’s been two weeks since I’ve heard from him.  
  
Our last conversation went like this.

  
ME: Hello, stranger!  
  
TOM: Bridgelene, I’m in serious danger of becoming a Smug Going-Out-With-Someone.  
  
ME: I’m so happy for you, Tom! Eduardo’s lovely.  
  
TOM: Ain’t love grand?  
  
ME: (teasingly) Eduardo and Tom, sitting in a tree—  
  
TOM: F-U-C-K-I-N-G!  
  
ME: (laughing) Let’s all have dinner here soon: you, Eduardo, me and Mark.  
  
TOM: An evening with BriMark means food testing human logic. Ooh, fun times for my colon!  
  
ME:  Oi, you! And I hate our portmanteau; I don’t even shop in Primark.  
  
TOM: Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to come up with one for me and Eduardo worthy of the greats like Bennifer, Brangelina, TomKat and, of course, BriMark. See you soon, sweetie.  
  
He’s so lovely. Love lovely Tom. Thank God for the gays!

Stubbed out my fag and immediately emptied the ashtray down the loo. As I sprayed the flat, my mind continued to whir round and around about the kiss recreation.

Looking back, if anyone had told me that first eventful night with Mark would perfectly encapsulate the five years of ups and downs to come, I would’ve told them to piss the fuck off.

  
***********

**Saturday 29 December**

_8st 11 (being lovesick was best unintentional diet plan ever), alcohol units 8 (it’s still Christmas), cigarettes 9 (not bad), calories 1497 (was lovesick), thoughts about Mark Darcy (non-stop), doting boyfriend 1 (hurrah! V.g indeed)._

**3.18 pm. My flat.**

When Mark showed up on my doorstep last night, I expected physical exertion to be limited only to shagging. But those best laid plans (in every sense) were blown apart almost immediately thanks to my carelessness and his curiosity.  
  
However, was so romantic kissing in the snow and cannot even begin to describe how being wrapped in his coat felt – that was a first for me. Didn’t want to move. Wished for Doctor Who’s Tardis so I could teleport us into my bed.  
  
As he held me tightly in his arms, I inhaled deeply; could not get enough of his scent, an intoxicating aroma of natural odour and his cologne (or aftershave. Or whatever fragrance thingy he uses). Was floating on air as we held hands and walked back to my flat. Mark chivalrously gave me his coat while he braved the elements in his polo neck jumper and scarf.  
  
Outside my building, quickly realised I’d locked myself out so had to buzz an extremely unimpressed Mr Ramdas to let me in. Luckily Mark had his wallet on him so he used a credit card to slip the lock to my flat.    
  
After long run Paula Radcliffe would be proud of, desperately wanted to freshen up: my hair was lank thanks to a mixture of sweat and snow, perspiration had made my make-up run and my armpits were so moist, you could grow rice in them.  

But Mark either didn’t notice or didn’t care. The minute I’d hung up his coat and my cardi, he started nuzzling my neck again and before I could stop him, he’d slipped his hands under my vest top and fondled my boobs. Obviously it was heaven, but couldn’t fully give in to what he was doing to me - was self-conscious in case I had under-boob sweat.  
  
“Oh God,” I moaned as I felt him hard against my back. It was now or never as far as any bathing was concerned.  
  
“Sorry, but you have to excuse me for a minute.”  
  
“Again?” he queried desperately.  
  
“I know. I’m sorry. Really need the loo after all that running,” I said. In my defence, it wasn’t a total lie.  
  
“The bedroom’s just there,” I pointed. “Why don’t you make yourself at home? I’ll be with you in a minute.” After hurriedly rearranging my vest top, I turned around and gave him a quick peck on the lips before darting into the bathroom.  
  
Time was of the essence so I couldn’t wait for the water to get hot. Frantically washed myself down, had a pee and then a speedy douche and was just about to head to the bedroom when I caught sight of my hair. Gaaaaah! I looked like the Scarecrow in The Wizard Of Oz.  
  
Grabbed the bottle of dry shampoo (thank you, Batiste!) and started spraying then reached for my brush. Final result wasn’t perfect, but it was better. Hoped he wouldn’t—    
  
Was startled by a knock on the door. “Bridget? Are you OK in there?”  
  
Oh shit.  
  
“I’m fine,” I called out. “Sorry. Won’t be a sec. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be with you in a minute.”  
  
Mark’s little reminder that he was waiting had an unfortunate effect – it made me anxious and the sweats returned with a vengeance. Had to wash and dry myself again.  
  
On my way out of the bathroom, inspected my reflection and tried to make a snap decision about refreshing my make-up. In the end, decided in favour of a quick touch up.

Started to walk out once more, but at the last second, thought I should make an entrance so I searched the laundry basket for something sexier to pair with my knickers. Lady Luck was smiling down on me - found a black satin camisole right near the top. Gave it a sniff and reasoned I could get away with it because I’d be taking it off anyway. Or he would. To make doubly sure, I grabbed some perfume and gave it a spray.

Finally ready, made my grand entrance, telling myself to ooze the poise of Audrey Hepburn and the sex appeal of Marilyn Monroe. Or maybe I wanted to ooze the poise of Sade and the sex appeal of Princess Diana when she—    
  
“Bridget!” Mark’s exasperated voice cut into my thoughts. “I last saw you 25 minutes ago. What took you so long?” he enquired as he dropped my copy of _If You Love Me, Say It_ on the floor.  
  
What?!? How is that possible? Thought I’d only been 10 minutes. Where did the time go? And why is it precisely the opposite whenever I’m washing up? At the sink, 10 minutes feels like 25 minutes.  
  
It was at that moment I noticed his clothes draped over my chair with his boxer shorts, neatly folded, taking centre stage on the seat. Folded? Who does that?  
  
“Sorry. I did go to the loo and then I wanted to freshen up because I was all sweaty after running after you and I couldn’t relax or feel sexy because I was worried you’d be turned off if you touched me and felt sweat on your hands and then I saw my hair and it looked bloody awful! Supposing you decided to touch my hair? That would be horrible and it’s—”  
  
“Bridget,” he interrupted, “you’re adorable when you ramble on and on.”  
  
Adorable? Puppies are “adorable” – I wanted to be a sex kitten a la Brigitte Bardot! Also, couldn’t help recalling his initial dismissal of me as “verbally incontinent” and now, apparently, I “ramble”. And there was I thinking I was explaining . . .  
  
“Everything about tonight has been a little out of the ordinary,” he continued. “Look, you’re nervous, I’m nervous – and I’m also jet-lagged, by the way.” He stretched out an arm and beckoned me to him. “Come here.”  
  
I took his hand and let him pull me down on the bed. After I got under the duvet, I turned to face him. Mark lifted the sheets and, with a white-hot intensity, looked me up and down.  
  
“I’ve been dreaming of this moment for months,” he said huskily as he caressed my face.    
  
I smiled into his eyes and whispered, “Can’t believe we’re finally together.”  
  
He leaned forward and dropped a gentle kiss on my lips. As he gathered me to him and urgently pressed my body against his, the kiss grew in fervour and intensity. I moved my lips downwards but he stopped me at his abdomen.  
  
“Don’t want to get too far ahead of you, Bridget,” he said softly, drawing me up to him for another searing kiss. Felt him pulling at my knickers, which we hastily removed together, and then I sat up and took off my camisole.  
  
“Christ, you’re so beautiful,” he said and bent his head to my boobs. Beautiful? Me? But self still has wobbly, lardy arse! Wow. Buried my hands in his hair, gasping aloud as he moved down my body and settled between my legs. Tried to steady my ragged breathing, but it was impossible when I felt his tongue lapping and sliding back and forth.   
  
Transported to another place, at some point I eventually realised Mark had raised his head from between my thighs and asked about protection. Not trusting my voice, I gestured towards the top of the unit by my bed.  
  
He quickly grabbed the packet saying, “I’ve never used these before.”  
  
“They’re eco . . . dolphin-friendly . . . biodegradable,” I managed to squeeze out.  
  
“Ah.”  
  
When he reached for me again, felt as if my body was going to explode – can’t remember the last time I wanted it so much. He kissed me deeply and, at last, eased inside my body but after only a couple of minutes, I felt him shudder, cry out my name and collapse on top of me.  
  
For a second, the only sound was our heavy panting. And then—  
  
“Oh fuck! Darling Bridget, I’m so sorry.”  
  
I immediately went into supportive partner mode. “It’s OK. It doesn’t matter, these things happen,” I said, ignoring the gnawing ache of my disappointment.  
  
“Well, the last time that happened to me was my first time. Bloody hell!”  
  
I rubbed his arm and continued to reassure him. “Mark, it’s OK.”  
  
“I know it wasn’t good for you. Or me, for that matter. But all I’ve been thinking about is what you said at my parents' party. After dumping my suitcase at home, I came straight here.”  
  
“Mark, it’s fine. Really.”  
  
“I feel like such an arse. Too bloody excited and too tired to control myself.”  
  
“You’re not an arse. And I understand,” I insisted, telling myself not to think of Daniel and how fantastic he was in bed.  
  
He shifted position and said, “Look, let me—” The next thing I felt was his fingers between my legs and shortly afterwards, with a burst of intense pleasure, I finally came.  
  
As we lay in each other’s arms and exchanged loving kisses, I tried not to want more. What a bloody bizarre evening! Our first time wasn’t what either of us had wanted or anticipated but there were some positives . . .

MARK DARCY SEXUAL PROS  
  
He thinks I’m sexy.  
  
He’s a wonderful kisser.  
  
He’s v. good with his tongue.  
  
He’s v. good with his fingers.  
  
He’s generous with foreplay.  
  
He’s got a gorgeous bottom.  
  
He’s already calling me ‘darling’.  
  
Whenever he stares at me, I melt.  
  
He looks good naked.  
  
He asks me if something he does feels good.  
  
He tells me if something I do feels good.  
  
He takes direction v. well.

  
MARK DARCY SEXUAL CONS  
  
Reserving judgement . . . for now.  
  
Felt him nuzzling my neck. “Let me get some sleep and recharge my batteries. Tomorrow will be much better, I promise. Good night, darling.”  
  
“G’night.”

**  
8.33 am.**

Woke up feeling disorientated and, for a split second, I thought I’d dreamt it all. But no – hadn’t. There he was staring adoringly at me.  
  
“Good morning,” he smiled.  
  
I smiled back. “Good morning.”  
  
“Yes,” he said moving forward to kiss me. “It is.”  
  
Slowly and very intimately, Mark caressed my body. Mmmmm. Floating on wave after wave of dizzying emotions, I cried out his name . . . and that was when he pounced.  
  
After all the months of frustration, we were ravenous for each other. It was passionate and it was tender and at times it felt like the dirtiest game of dare ever played: who could moan the loudest? Or thrust the fastest? Or make the other come hardest? Or . . . Mmmmmm.  
  
Never let it be said that Mark Darcy’s not a man of his word; he promised it would be better and over the course of several hours, that’s exactly what it was. Three orgasms better, to be precise.  
  
“You should’ve tried to kiss me at the tarts and vicars party,” I said after our first ecstatic shag of the morning. “We could have saved so much time.”  
  
“You were wearing that sexy Playboy Bunny outfit, Bridget - a kiss would never have been enough.” After a pause, he added, “Don’t suppose you still have it, do you?”  
  
“Lent it to Shazzer last month. She keeps forgetting to give it back.”  
  
“Ah. Pity.” He could not keep the disappointment out of his voice.  
  
“But now that I have someone to wear it for, I’ll get it off her this week,” I promised.  
  
Mark sighed. “I could have been arrested for some of the thoughts that crossed my mind whenever I saw you.”  
  
Knowing I’d had such an effect on him was turning me on. “You liked how I looked in it?” I asked the question because I already knew the answer. I just wanted to hear him say it.   
  
“‘Like’ is a gross understatement. Being near you was torture; I was so hard, I could have cut diamonds.”

“Really?”

“Truly. You looked so sexy, Bridget. It took my breath away.”  
  
He was making me feel like a sex goddess; I was more than ready for round two. Mark groaned as my hand travelled down his chest and past his abdomen.  
  
“Tell me what you wanted to do to me that day,” I said softly as I stroked and felt him grow harder. Mmmmmm.  
  
“Bridget Jones, not only am I going to tell you,” he gasped. “I’m also going to show you.”  
  
What happened next is triple X-rated.  
  
Am blushing at the memory of some of the things he did to me (and some of the things I did to him) during that second session . . . Turns out Mark Darcy’s an exotic tiger of a man in bed (influence of Japanese first wife, I wonder?) who can go longer than the Duracell Bunny.  
  
As for the third shag, there was no finesse to it whatsoever; we just fucked each other’s brains out. So that’s what barristers have hidden beneath the wigs and gowns!   
  
Very much looking forward to having him again when he returns to my bed; he left an hour ago to pick up some clothes and toiletries – and more condoms. Oddest thing - other pack of eco-condoms has done a Lord Lucan and totally disappeared. Where is pack hiding? Where did I put it? Where? Where?

Still can't believe how fantastic shagging was! To think self was so worried after last night, but concern was misplaced. Have an insatiable sex-god for a boyfriend. Hurrah!


	2. Chapter 2

**5.15 pm.**

  
Mark’s meeting me at the restaurant at half past seven. Have an idea for tonight’s party; will wear the black dress I wore to the Kafka’s Motorbike launch especially for him. He loves that dress. Whenever I wear it, I never wear it for very long once he gets me home. Really in a party mood. Can’t wait!

p

**  
Saturday 20 December**

_9st 1 (have lost a pound overnight. Hurrah!), alcohol units approx. 10 (was pissed enough to be able to transfuse with a distillery), cigarettes 13 (puffing hell!), calories 2051 (ate my weight in party food), make up shags 3 (workaholic fiancé cancelled on me again)._

**  
2.25 pm. My flat.**

Last night there was a wild party in Iddys followed by a wild party in my bed with Mark Darcy . . . 

Free alcohol at Iddys + Sit Up Britain employees = boozy chaos!

We were in the basement of the restaurant where we were free to make as much noise as we chose. The waiting staff, smartly dressed all in black, swept in and out and around and among us with trays of delicious canapés and platters filled with heavenly finger food. Told self it was OK to eat anything and everything and forget about the calories – it’s Christmas.    
  
Every so often, would sneak a furtive glance at my phone. When it got to 7.40 pm, Mark was officially late. And Mark is never late.  
  
Wanted to call him, but couldn’t get a reception so I excused myself and headed upstairs. As I neared the exit, my phone beeped to announce a voicemail message. It was sent at 7.09 pm.  
  
“Hello, darling. I’m really sorry I’m running late - it's that case I was telling you about, the journalist being held in Muribundi. The judiciary process is a nightmare. I should be there at just after eight. Bye.”  
  
Bloody workaholic!  
  
Sod it. Would eat, drink and be merry alongside raucous work colleagues until his arrival when self would transition to best behaviour and do everything in moderation so as to appear a sophisticated, elegant, non-vomiting-on-fiancé woman of the world. Good plan.  
  
Everyone was letting their hair down - not that Richard Finch needs much alcohol to get going.  
  
“Go on, girl. Get that down ya!” he boomed into my ear over the loud music as he held out a huge glass of white wine.  
  
“You’re not trying to get me pissed, are you?” I replied as I took the glass. “My fiancé wouldn’t approve.”  
  
“Of course I’m trying to get you pissed,” he good-humouredly retorted. “What self-respecting, red-blooded male wouldn’t when your tits look like that in that dress?”  
  
Drank half the glass in one swig.  
  
As The Jackson 5 sang Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, Sit Up Britain reporter Carmen danced up to us.  
  
“Richard, Bridget’s coming to dance with me, aren’t you, Bridge?”  
  
Seizing the opportunity to escape, I let Carmen drag me towards the makeshift dancefloor where a group, mainly women, were dancing. We did what passes for dancing to yuletide faves like Elton’s Step Into Christmas, The Ronettes’ Sleigh Ride and, of course, Mariah’s All I Want For Christmas until I felt too much time had passed.  
  
“I just need to quickly go upstairs and make a call,” I told Carmen. “I can’t get a signal down here.”  
  
“OK. Hurry back!” she cried.  
  
Once again, I clumped up the stairs and for the second time, my phone beeped notification of a voicemail message. It was sent at 8.19 pm.  
  
“Bridget, I’m still up to my neck in this case. I’m really sorry but I think it’s best if I just cancel. I’ll come round later. You should be home by midnight, right? Have fun, darling.”  
  
Another date, another cancellation, another promise of a late-night-make-up-shag. Sad thing is I’m not even surprised anymore.

**  
9.22 pm.**

  
“Should've known better than to cheat a friend, and waste the chance that I've been given so I'm never gonna dance again, the way I danced with you-ooooo!”  
  
There’s nothing like a good ol’ singalong to George Michael’s weepy classic, and the riotous dance floor rendition by Me, Patchouli, Sexy Matt, Carmen and Horrid Harold was nothing like a good ol’ singalong to George Michael’s weepy classic.  
  
But I was having a good time so who gives a fuck? I will not be deflated by a workaholic workhorse and his never-ending work ethic. Instead, I choose vodka. And George Michael.  
  
“Last Christmas, I gave you my heart,” we sang with gusto. “But the very next day you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special . . .”  
  
I felt a pair of arms encircle me from behind and pull me firmly back against a man’s body. My heart lifted for a split second, but—     
  
“It’s been a while since we danced vertically, Jones. And far too long since we danced horizontally.”  
  
I manoeuvred out of his embrace and turned around to face him. “What are you doing here, Daniel?”  
  
“I work for Sit Up Britain too. Or have you forgotten?” he said with a grin. “Come on, let’s dance.”  
  
I knew Mark had bailed on me, but Daniel didn’t. Truth is, I wasn’t sober, I was annoyed with Mark and I didn’t trust myself around Daniel. I didn’t trust him either – a given. But also, I didn’t trust myself not to let my guard down and say something I shouldn’t.  
  
“Probably best if my fiancé doesn’t see me dancing with my ex-boyfriend,” I said instead.  
  
He grinned cockily. “It’s way after nine, Jones. I know you like to be fashionably late for just about everything, but Darcy’s a stickler for time and he would’ve been here ages ago. If he’s not showing up to take you home, he’s not coming at all. Which is it?”  
  
Gaaaaah!  
  
“We’re meeting at my flat later,” I grudgingly admitted.  
  
“Oh, Bridge!” He shook his head. “Bridge, Bridge, Bridge. If all you want is to be a booty call for some tosser, I will happily oblige.”  
  
“I’m not a booty call! And Mark isn’t a tosser.” I exclaimed indignantly.  
  
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. If all you want is to be a late-night rendezvous for some tosser, I will happily oblige.”  
  
“I’m not that either!”  
  
“We look bloody strange having this conversation in the middle of all these dancing couples. Let’s get a drink. Come on.” He grabbed my arm and led me in the direction of the bar before I had a chance to say no.

  
**9.45pm.**  
  
  
“Daniel.”  
  
“Yes, Bridge?”  
  
“Daniel.”  
  
“Yes?” he answered.  
  
“Daniel.”  
  
“It’s still my name, Jones.” Even in my pitiful state, I could tell he was amused.  
  
“Can’t remember what wasssssh gonna say.”  
  
He looked at me closely. “I’d better take you home. Let’s get your things.”  
  
“No, no, no! No-no-no-no-no.” I wagged a finger at him. “You can’t be in my flat with me. Mark’s coming.”  
  
“That’ll be a first for him. Is he on Viagra now?”  
  
“No. He doshn’t need Vagra. I mean, Vagra. Nope. I mean, Viagra.” Alcohol had dimmed my irritation at Daniel’s constant barbs about Mark. “He’sh sex machine. He shags me and shags me and shags me and—”  
  
“Enough, Jones. I get the picture. And it’s making me feel a tad queasy.” He pulled me up off the bar stool. “I see a bag, I don’t see a coat. Let’s get it and go.”  
  
“No, wait. Like thisssssong,” I slurred.  
  
“'Santa Baby?”  
  
“Yep. Lesh dance. C’mon!”  
  
“Bridge, you’re going to hear this song 50 million times over the next few days. Think it’s best if I get you home. You need coffee.”  
  
He steered me in the direction of the cloakroom and then towards the stairs.  
  
“But we didn’t say bye!” I protested.  
  
“I couldn’t give a fuck, Jones.”  
  
He pushed me up the stairs, out the door and into the busy street which was thronging with revellers. The blast of cold air was a shock to the system; sobered up a little straightaway. We stood on the pavement for a few minutes and soaked up the atmosphere while we both smoked a fag. It was one of those crisp December nights; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and all the stars were clearly visible.  
  
“Beautiful night,” Daniel said companionably.  
  
“Yes,” I agreed and sighed. “Wish I was sharing this with Mark.” Instantly felt bad. “Not that am not happy to be here with you . . . Happy to be here with you . . . What mean issssssh, Mark would love it too cos he’s really into—”  
  
“No explanation necessary. I’ll just buy you a bigger spade for Christmas, Jones,” he teased. “You were kinder to me when you were a little more squiffy.”  
  
Minutes later, we were outside my building.  
  
“Can manage from here,” I said, taking out my keys. “Thanks very—”  
  
“Aren’t you going to invite me up for coffee?” he asked. “It’s rather cold out here.”  
  
“Oh.” He’d put me on the spot. “OK. One quick coffee.”

**  
Much later. My flat.**

  
“You’re asking the wrong man, Bridge.”  
  
“Not asking for me. Asking for a friend,” I said as I stubbed out a Silk Cut.  
  
“A friend? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. Well, yes. In that scenario, I would have called in a favour with a work colleague and kept the date with my girlfriend.”  
  
“Thank you!” I exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I was . . . what she was thinking.”  
  
“She must have been pretty fucked off about missing that concert. Your mate.”  
  
“She was,” I confirmed. “Very.”  
  
He stared. “This friend of yours - is she happy?”  
  
“Course,” I hit back. “Course she is. Absolutely. Totally 100 percent happy. She loves him. Her boyfriend.”  
  
“On a related subject, what time is Arsey-Darcy coming here, Jones?”  
  
“Around midnight. Why?”  
  
Daniel took a sip of his coffee and looked me straight in the eyes. “All work and no play makes Mark Darcy a very, very, very dull boy. Tried to warn you, Bridge. Tried to win you back, but no-ooooo! You wanted sincerity and monogamy.”  
  
Uneasily, I asked, “What makes you think we’re talking about me and Mark?” He gave me the kind of look reserved for the village idiot.  
  
“You're still sexy, you still make me laugh and you're still the best shag l've ever had. But bloody hell, Jones, you’re a terrible liar.” Daniel looked around. “It’s strange being in your flat again after so many years. We had some good times here.”  
  
“What you really mean is we had some good shags here because that’s all we ever did.”  
  
“And what do you have now, Jones? A whole lot of make up sex because of a man who puts work ahead of you.”  
  
“Excuse me! I’m engaged to be married.” I waved my left hand in front of him. “This is a Tiffany-set solitaire, I’ll have you know.”  
  
“I’m impressed,” he shrugged. “But I was impressed when you first showed it to me years ago.”  
  
Decided to change the subject. “How’s it going on The Smooth Guide?”  
  
He sat back on the sofa and stretched out his legs. “It’s going. But it hasn’t been the same since they foisted Lori-Ann on me.”  
  
“But I can see why. It’s the contrasts: you’re a man, she’s a woman; you’re British, she’s American; you’re charming and flirty-dirty, she’s more professional so that—”  
  
“You sound like a producer.”  
  
“Do I?” Couldn’t help feeling flattered. “Do I really? Because I’d love to go that way career-wise.”  
  
“You?” he smirked. “You can barely organise a shopping list for your trips to Tesco, let alone anything else.”  
  
“Well, a girl can dream.” I took a sip of my nasty-tasting instant coffee. Daniel had used the last of my good ground stuff getting me more sober. “What’s your problem with Lori-Ann?”  
  
“She’s OK, but I miss the special kind of fun we had making Guide.”  
  
“It was a good laugh at times,” I conceded.  
  
“Funny how all my attempts to seduce you were thwarted.”  
  
“Daniel, I was back with Mark after Thailand and I would never have done to him what you did to me and him.”  
  
He reflected on my words before taking a deep breath. “Bridge, you should know that Thailand was . . . I felt . . . I feel . . . I was a bastard because of . . . Look, whatever you thought of the reason, I did want you back all those years ago, truly. Losing you to Darcy was a kick in the balls. All my own fault I admit, but a kick in the balls nonetheless.”  
  
“Daniel, you told me all this years ago. It’s in the past. We’ve both moved on.” I affectionately rubbed his knees.  
  
“Maybe I can’t believe you still speak to me after the beastly way I’ve treated you.”  
  
“You make me laugh and I enjoy your company,” I said matter-of-factly.  
  
“What about Darcy?”  
  
“I really enjoy his company too,” I answered with a wink.  
  
“You know what I mean.”  
  
“Yes, I do. Truth is he hated every second we worked together, but we got through it. Told him it was just work and you were just work and you didn’t mean anything to me.”  
  
Daniel gestured to his heart, pretending I’d wounded him. “Thanks. I think,” he said.  
  
Sneaked a glance at the time. “Excuse me for a sec. Just need to quickly freshen up.” I grabbed the ashtray and popped into the loo to get rid of the fag ends. At the same time, took the opportunity to gargle and swish some mouthwash.  
  
“Getting ready to be disappointed sexually, are you?” he teased on my return. Ignored that one.  
  
“I’d love you to try and be a better man with another woman because I'm never ever getting involved with you again,” I said as I sprayed the air freshener around. “And even if you feel you don’t deserve my friendship, you’ve got it anyway.”  
  
“I’m touched . . . I wish,” he replied ruefully with a smile.  
  
“You should be,” I said and sat back down on the sofa. “Can we raise our mugs filled with this disgusting instant coffee and toast to being friends?”  
  
“Friends,” he accepted to the sound of the clink. “With benefits?” he added semi-seriously.  
  
“Oh, fuck off!” I had to laugh. “You’re incorrigible.”  
  
“Bridge, you can’t say—” Interrupted by his mobile phone ringing, Daniel excused himself.  
  
“Hello? . . . Anuska! My lovely little Czech mate. How are you? . . . I’m very well. Long time, no hear . . . Oh, really? Did you have a good flight? . . . I’d love to see you too . . . Right now? . . . Hold on a minute, just need to shoo this moth away.” He covered the speaker with his hand and said: “Just so I’m clear, Jones, is a shag tonight totally out of the question?”  
  
“Of course it is!” I answered heatedly. “It was never in the question.”  
  
“Keep yourself warm and the champagne cold, Anuska. I’ll be there in 20 minutes . . . You too. See you soon.” He put his phone away and grinned. “Like you, I have a late-night rendezvous to keep. What can I say? It’s been fun.”  
  
“Thank you for tonight, Daniel,” I said as he stood up and walked towards the coat rack. “I really mean that.”  
  
On the way out, he adjusted his scarf and turned to me: “Remember what I said about all work and no play. I’m off to play now. Bye, Bridge.” He blew a kiss and headed down the stairs.  
  
After shutting the door, I put the mugs in the sink and slumped back on the sofa.  
  
Ever since I penned it, find myself revisiting old diary entry from a few months ago; the one written in a fit of temper after Mark cancelled our Valentine’s mini-break to Paris.  
  
Read it v. regularly hoping most of it will no longer be relevant or accurate. Here we go again. Still hoping . . .

******

**Friday 20 February**

Reasons why Mark Darcy and I could never work.

His work comes first.

He's socially inept.

He doesn't like parties.

He always wants to go home at a "sensible time."

He only reads history books.

He doesn't make new friends.

He doesn't know or like any music after 1985.

He's never spontaneous.

He only buys me presents which are useful.

I never know if he'll come home alive.

I'm mostly alone . . . even when we're together.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Another reread and I still can’t cross anything off. Fucking fuck. Fuck. Fucketty fuck. Fuck.  
  
Went to the bookshelf and selected two of my latest self-help books: _How To Not Commit To Him When He Does Not Commit To You_ and _When The Other Woman Is His Job._ Flicked through a couple of chapters hoping for some answers.  
  
Still none the bloody wiser.  
  
Just before midnight, heard a key in the lock. Knew it was Mark so I kept my eyes fixed on the TV. The door opened, he stopped by the coat rack, footsteps and then—  
  
“Hello, darling.” Mark dropped his briefcase, loosened his tie and plopped down next to me. “How was your party? Did you have a good time?”  
  
Assumed air of dignified hauteur. “It was OK.”  
  
“Good,” he said and pecked my cheek.  
  
Told self to keep calm – and carry on. “I’m just glad it was our office party because I knew everyone there. Won’t think about the alternative.”  
  
“What alternative?”  
  
Turned away from the TV and looked into his eyes. “The alternative is some other kind of party where I don’t know anyone and you cancel on me, yet again.”  
  
He grimaced. “I’m so sorry. I had every intention of being there tonight, but—”  
  
“There’s always a ‘but’ these days,” I huffed. “I ate alone in McDonald’s last night. Remember?”  
  
“Bridget, you’re cross. Justifiably so. I’ll make it up to you and—”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure you will. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Nothing I probably won’t hear again.”  
  
He caught the exasperated tone in my voice. “Darling, about the case; the journalist in question is on an extremely worthy and dangerous assignment. His situation is undeniably desperate. It’s very important that we . . .”  
  
Dedication. Often above and beyond the line of duty. It's why Mark Darcy deserves his reputation as a brilliant human rights barrister. Tom, Jude and Shazzer think he’s a bloody decent guy. But they also think he's got a poker up his arse: reserved, repressed and as stuffily English as his court wig and designer Oxfords. Thing is, that’s not the full story.  
  
Mark was still speaking, still trying to explain. “. . . let you down, but I promise I did my very best to be with you tonight. You were on my mind every minute I was away from you in that . . .”  
  
I was hearing him, but it's hard to listen when you know every line of the recycled script.  
  
Strange to think I’m the only person on this entire planet who sees the very real Mark Darcy, the passionate, red-blooded man underneath all the haughtiness. The Mark who wages a constant battle to control feelings bubbling beneath the surface. The caring, sweet, dependable Mark who loves me as I really am. The Mark who shags the living daylights out of me.  
  
He’d stopped speaking. On cue, I said: “I know your work is important, but it’s just that—” I sighed. Couldn’t say it. Couldn’t bring myself to say everything that was on my mind – that had been on my mind for months.  
  
“Yes?” he prompted.  
  
“It’s just that I was looking forward to being at that party with you.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full story. “I wore this dress especially for you.”  
  
“And you look incredibly beautiful and sexy in it, as always.” Mark slipped a hand up my leg and nuzzled my neck. “What are you wearing underneath it? Black lace lingerie?” he murmured throatily.  
  
“How very dare you,” I groaned as his hand pressed against the inside of my thigh. “How dare you use sex against me when you know I’m pissed off with you.”  
  
“Are you pissed off enough for angry sex?” he asked and waggled his eyebrows.  
  
“I’m pissed off enough for no sex,” I lied. Naturally Mark saw straight through that.  
  
He repositioned my body before lifting my legs on to his lap. I was thrown.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“You’ll see,” he responded.  
  
I watched as he unzipped one of my boots and gently ran his fingers down my calf to my ankle, removing the left one and placing it on the floor before repeating the process with the right boot. All this so he could lightly massage my feet through my tights.  
  
After the initial embarrassment passed (does anyone like their boyfriend handling their feet?), I went with the flow because it felt so bloody good. Had to bite my bottom lip or I would have moaned loud enough to wake the dead.  
  
“Bridget, tonight didn’t work out as we’d planned and I’m really sorry. But everything I do is for us, it’s for our future,” he insisted as he continued massaging my feet.  
  
“I know,” I responded with a heavy sigh.  
  
Minutes ticked by then he lowered my legs and inched closer. “Did that feel good, darling?”  
  
“It was lovely,” I answered. “Do I count it as foreplay? Is it part of the make up sex you’re planning?”  
  
“I mean every apology, every kiss, every touch,” he said, moving his hands over my breasts and outlining the curves with his fingertips. “I hate it when I upset you.”  
  
Did my best to concentrate. “I know you do, Mark. But here we are. Again.”  
  
“Bridget, it’s nearly Christmas,” he planted tender kisses on my forehead. “I’m off work from Tuesday and that’s when it’ll just be the two of us again.”  
  
For a few bloody days? Oh, yippee. Lucky me.  
  
“For how long?”  
  
“Hmmmmm?” he queried, lowering the strap of my dress and kissing my shoulder.  
  
“I’m just wondering if things will be different next year.”  
  
“They can be,” he said. “One big difference would be you finally setting a wedding date.”  
  
My stomach lurched.  
  
“I still fancy August. Or even early September. Much better for time off work too,” Mark added, kissing both my wrists.  
  
More lurching. Told myself it was residual alcohol then did the only thing I could think of . . .   
  
“Still really bloody pissed off with you,” I countered and pulled his head towards mine for a desperate snog. Interpreting it as passion (which is what it quickly became anyway), Mark responded in kind, kissing his way down my throat to my cleavage, leaving me a quivering mess.  
  
“Christ, you make me so fucking—” he grasped my hand and placed it over the front of his trousers. This is impossible, I thought as I increased the pressure and felt him grow harder. This is all so impossible because I always want him.  
  
Heard a groan and I heard him breathe my name. The next thing I knew, I was in his arms and being carried to the bedroom. After being placed on the bed, I immediately sat up and pulled off my dress and tights.  
  
Mark frantically removed his clothing, folded his boxers and fell upon me, kissing me until we were both breathless. When we broke apart, the air was thick with our panting.  
  
He reached out a hand and lovingly smoothed down my hair. “Tonight is for you, Bridget. Not me. You.”  
  
We lay on our sides facing each other and while my hand explored his chest, gradually travelling lower, he traced the outline of my bra with his fingers.  
  
“Silk?”  
  
“Satin.”  
  
“Sexy,” he murmured appreciatively, leaning in and delicately touching his lips to mine. Hormones surging, I slid a hand up and down, wanting him to grow even harder than he already was. He tensed but resisted the urge to thrust. Frustrated, I swung a leg over his thigh, hoping he’d take the hint.  
  
Hands glided down my back, pulling me closer and impatiently tugging at my knickers. Hurrah! I thought. He’s read my mind. Or rather, he’s read another part of my body.  
  
Eagerly removed my leg from his so that I could get on my back and lift my body. The scrap of satin was unceremoniously yanked off and dropped on the floor.   
  
“Thought you were pissed off, Bridget?” Mark drawled as he moved over me.  
  
“I am,” I replied. 

“You are?” He grabbed my wrists, pinned them above my head and whispered in my ear, “Yet you left your sexy lingerie on because . . . you know I like taking it off.”  
  
“You’re lucky—” I stopped in mid-sentence, gasping as his lips brushed and then nipped my earlobe before trailing a path down my neck to my boobs.  
  
“You’re lucky . . . I love you so much,” I moaned as his tongue swirled around my satin-covered breast. Slowly he circled closer and closer and closer to my nipple, licking it over the material as I writhed beneath him.  
  
The moment he released my wrists, I crushed him to me, craving every inch of what I could feel: hard. Heavy. Hot.   
  
“Mark,” I pleaded, “I need—”  
  
“Not yet,” he insisted, pushing the fabric of my bra aside and fastening his mouth over a nipple. Immediate shockwaves.  
  
“Are you . . . trying to . . . make me beg?”   
  
He lifted his head, “Darling, I’ve pissed you off and I’m going to make it up to you.” I sighed and buried my hands in his hair, trembling as I felt him expose my other breast and close his mouth over it.  
  
“There are laws . . . in this country,” I arched my back as his tongue flicked from one nipple to the other, “against torture.”  
  
“Had enough, have you?” he smiled.  
  
“I just . . . I really can’t . . . Oh fuck, Mark! Will you just get on with it! I can’t take much more of this.”  
  
He kissed me deeply, pulling me even closer to him. At last I felt him unhook my bra and fling it behind him. I took that as a sign I would finally get what I needed.    
  
Kissing wildly, we gripped each other’s arses and furiously ground our hips together. Now, I thought. Do it now. Just fucking do it! Do it! But he didn’t.   
  
“Mark!” I cried. “Would you just . . . Oh shit! Please just . . . I want—”  
  
“I know what you want, Bridget,” he murmured. “I know exactly what you want and I’m going to give it to you . . .” I felt his hand slip between my thighs and steal upwards. “Eventually . . .”  
  
One finger.   
  
“Soon . . .”  
  
Two fingers.  
  
“Presently . . .”  
  
Three fingers.  
  
“Just not yet.”  
  
Oh, holy Jesus.

**  
4.33 pm.**

We shagged all night.  
  
Keep going back to that first one when he kept me on the brink for the longest time. When I finally came, I nearly hyperventilated.  
  
Much, much later in the night – well, it was actually around four-something this morning – right at crucial moment of third and last shag, we realised too late that we’d run out of condoms. Was so far gone, told him to carry on. So he did.

Not something we do often but whenever we do, always savour it because au naturel sex is different. Unquestionably so. It feels different. It feels better. Just the fact alone of no barrier between us instantly elevates it. And feeling Mark inside me, knowing he's come inside me, is an incredible buzz.  
  
Wonder if self is pregnant? If so, is not entirely scary thought. Lovely to think that whatever happens between me and Mark, I’d always have a piece of him to love. A baby would make things better. Certainly wouldn’t make things any worse. Can’t wait to buy pregnancy test. This time, will make sure he doesn’t walk in on me. Will do in the loo in private on New Year’s Eve.

Really hope we start the New Year with - excuse me, Dickens – great expectations because life is currently revolving around the following pattern: work, home, disappointment, make up sex.  
  
Sometimes there’s a slight variation: work, disappointment, home, make up sex.  
  
But, for the most part, it’s work, home, disappointment and then make up sex.  
  
We’re v. good at the sex part of our relationship; if shagging was an Olympic sport, we'd top the medal table.

Keep wondering where Mark Darcy gets his stamina from – you wouldn’t think it to look at him. Wonder if he was like this with slutty Japanese wife? Or bitchy Natasha? Thank goodness for condoms or we’d probably have a football team by now. 

**  
Tuesday 23 December**

_9st 4 (Am Dumbo! Dooooooom!), alcohol units (who’s counting?), cigarettes 4 (harder to smoke around workaholic fiancé so v.g), calories (eating for England. Wonder if am pregnant?), sexy Christmas gift 1 (from Mark, of course)._

**  
10.50 pm. Northamptonshire.**

Definitely picked the wrong place for last-minute shopping early this morning. Went to Borough High Street just after nine and actually saw two women fighting over the last bottle of Baileys in Tesco, as if we were all in a famine-ravaged Third World country instead of a south London street with more supermarkets than pubs.  
  
Was only there to buy some wrapping paper, Chardonnay, sherry and whisky (mainly for Mark) to take to Mum’s – couldn’t wait to get out. People lose their bloody minds during countdown to Christmas; they panic as if The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have been sighted in Balham and there’s only 20 minutes left to buy cranberry sauce.  
  
Rushed home to wrap Christmas presents destined for Grafton Underwood: Fortnum & Mason chocolates for Granny; a Royal Selangor pewter tankard for Dad; Vera Wang for Wedgwood Champagne flutes for Mum; a marble cheeseboard for the Alconburys; a porthole clock paperweight for Admiral Darcy; a cribbage set for Mrs Darcy and a watch rotator by Dulwich Designs for Mark. He’d better bloody like it because it cost me nearly £200.

Am massively overdrawn. Bloody Christmas.  
  
Was in the process of ticking off Xmas checklist when Mark arrived . . . and got all randy. Couldn't believe it. Wasn't even wearing anything sexy! Had on an old polo neck jumper with an older pair of jeans and the bunny slippers I got in last year's secret Santa at work.

At around noon, we packed the car and hit the M11 for Grafton Underwood. It was heaven to escape the madness even if, in reality, I was only exchanging one type of madness for another.  
  
Fell asleep shortly into the drive; when I woke up, it was nearly half past two and Mark was backing into a space within the beautiful, lush grounds of a grand-looking building in the country.  
  
“Where are we?” I asked sleepily.  
  
“My Christmas present to us. We’re at Fawsley Hall,” he said and switched off the ignition.  
  
“Fawsley Hall?”  
  
“Dates back to Tudor times. Or rather, many of the surviving original features do; Fawsley Hall dates even further back. But you’re going to love its more modern aspects: the spa’s range of treatments, the indoor swimming pool and the sauna.”  
  
Face broke into a wide grin. “Are we staying here tonight?”  
  
“Absolutely,” he smiled back. “Tomorrow, we’ll drive on to Grafton Underwood. I’ll drop you at your parents’ before going home. But tonight, Bridget, tonight is all about us.” He leaned in for a kiss. “Let’s go.”  
  
Words don’t do Fawsley Hall justice – so I shan’t bother. Was completely gobsmacked by its beauty.  
  
Mark had booked us into the master 1575 Suite – it’s only the room where Queen Elizabeth I stayed! An excellent mix of Tudor and modern, the bedroom was dominated by the breathtakingly ornate four-poster bed.  
  
Looked around the sumptuous surroundings and gleefully tested out the mattress. Was deliriously happy about this surprise.  
  
“Mark, this is stunning!”  
  
“Isn’t it? It’s been a hotel since 1998. Believe it was even mentioned in the Domesday Book. Talk about history on your doorstep,” Mark said in awe as he opened his suitcase. He looked up. “By the way, it’s also a very popular wedding venue. And I can certainly see the appeal, Mrs Darcy.”  
  
Had to smile at that. “We could do a lot worse than this, Mr Darcy.”  
  
“One for the list then. We’re just in time for afternoon tea. And Bridget, you have an appointment at the spa booked for quarter to four.”  
  
“Oooh, goody!” Walked over to him and snuck my arms around his waist. “And what will you be doing while I’m making myself even more beautiful for you?”  
  
“A couple of depositions to read over, but nothing too involving,” he replied before dropping a kiss on my lips.  
  
“Work?” My heart sank. I broke our embrace.  
  
“Bloody Muribundi. Its justice system, if I may abuse the term and label it as such, exists only to serve the interests of the state not the individual. Unfortunately, our intrepid journalist has fallen foul of an arbitrary arrest and imprisonment. It’s a pretty delicate situation. Might have to go there in the New Year,” he stated, pulling a folder from his briefcase.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
Mark checked his watch. “But that’s a conversation for another time. We’re here to have a day to ourselves before doing the family thing on Thursday. I’m famished after all that driving, aren’t you? Come on, darling, let’s go and stuff our faces with scones, fancies and cucumber sandwiches.”  
  
He held out his hand; I grasped it and we went downstairs.  
  
The tea, which was really bloody scrumptious, was served in The Tudor Great Hall with its terribly grand furniture, high ceilings and impressive fireplace. Mark inspected it with great interest. Had to drag him away.  
  
Couldn’t argue with the setting, but knowing Mark had brought work to do was the annoying blot on the gorgeous landscape. I wanted him entirely to myself over Christmas, and it wasn’t going to happen.  
  
Actually pitied the poor masseur who tried to work out all my knots.  
  
Dinner was glorious. We both started with butternut squash soup and yummy homemade bread (smothered mine in so much butter, it left yellow trails when I dunked it in my soup) before going our separate ways for mains.  
  
Felt guilty about the butter thing so opted for the roasted provençale vegetable mozzarella tart with a wild rocket salad; Mark went for the filet mignon which he said was ‘excellent’.  
  
“Your food looks delicious,” I said as I stabbed some rocket.  
  
“It’s one of the most tender steaks I have ever had the privilege of eating.” He cut a portion on to his fork and held it in front of me. “Would you care for some of my meat?”  
  
Caught his tone and looked up into his eyes. Sexy bastard. “It’s very . . . big,” I replied, trying not to laugh.  
  
“Oh I think it’s just the right size for you, Bridget.” His mouth twitched.   
  
Tried to stifle my giggles but instead, ended up snorting loudly in manner of a pig having a coughing fit. Several bemused diners glanced across at us. I kicked the sole of Mark’s shoe.  
  
“Stop it! People will think I’m an oik with no manners.”  
  
He chuckled. “Here, try this.” I leaned forward so he could feed me.  
  
“Was it good for you, Bridget?” he asked archly.  
  
Naughty. Wagged my finger at him.  
  
“Seriously, is it good, Bridget?”  
  
“It’s wonderful.”  
  
“So are you,” Mark said ever so seriously.  
  
“Me? You’re the one who’s admired and respected. I’m a hot mess; stick me in front of a microphone and a roomful of people and I can’t string two words together.”  
  
“Individuals like me are two a penny, Bridget,” he shrugged. “You, on the other hand, are wholly unique. I’m yet to meet anyone like you.”  
  
Touched, I said, “Tonight, I’m going to ride you like a jockey at the Grand National.”   
  
He grinned. “I’d better eat every ounce of this filet mignon then. I’m going to need bags and bags of energy.”  
  
Dessert was heavenly: chocolate brûlée and boozy cherries on almond shortbread. If I close my eyes, I can still taste it: yummy. Fabulous meal was rounded off with coffee and the artisan cheese selection. Wanted to relish the experience a little longer, but Mark couldn’t wait to head back upstairs. Horny so-and-so.  
  
“Champagne, chocolates and lots and lots of bubbles – I don’t want to move. Ever.”  
  
“Hate to be the bearer of bad news but the clock’s ticking, Bridget. The water’s warm. It’ll soon be tepid.”  
  
We were doing the one thing we couldn’t do in my flat: bathing together. After all, would have been v. stupid not to take advantage of the large freestanding bath as there’s barely room in my tub to swing a mouse, let alone two people.  
  
Snugly positioned between Mark’s thighs, was sitting with my back against his chest and loving the feel of it.  
  
Dunked the sponge, turned and pressed firmly, watching the water fall down his chest. “Forgot to tell you I fell asleep during my massage. The masseur said I was snoring. Wanted the ground to open up and swallow me!”  
  
“But that’s a sign you were in a state of total relaxation,” Mark said as he dipped the sponge and squeezed water down my back.  
  
“Oh, I was in a state alright. Bet Elizabeth Hurley doesn’t snore through her massages.” At this rate, will never develop the inner poise that will mark me out as a sophisticated woman of the world. Scooped up some bubbles and blew them down the bath in exasperation.   
  
“Don’t give it any more thought, darling.” Felt him kiss the back of my neck and then more water oozed down my shoulders and back. “Looking at these glorious wood beams and exposed stone walls, it’s hard to believe we were sitting in London traffic a few hours ago.”  
  
“And now we’re sitting in this gorgeous bathtub,” I sighed dreamily, rubbing his leg under the water as he kissed my shoulders.  
  
“After we’re married, we must buy a bath big enough for two,” Mark declared. I waited for my stomach to lurch, but it didn’t. Cheered, I took the proffered glass of Champagne.   
  
Moved my feet just so I could enjoy the feeling of the water rippling against us. “It’s been a perfect day, Mark. And we’ve topped it off perfectly with this bath.” His arms tightened around me; I angled my head so we could kiss.   
  
“Dinner was heavenly. I was going to be good but I couldn’t resist the chocolate brûlée.”  
  
“Virginia Woolf said: ‘one cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.’ I can’t wait for the ‘love well’ part of this evening, Bridget.”  
  
“Neither can I,” I smiled, “which is why I’ve drained the Champagne.”  
  
“That’s my cue to drain the bath,” he said, reaching for the plug. “Let’s rinse off and test out that bed.”  
  
We got up and moved under the shower head. Within a minute, our romantic, relaxing bath turned into an excitingly erotic shower. Mmmmmmm.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**11.55 pm.**

  
“Bridget, do we have to watch this?”  
  
“Yes.” We were lying down together, still dressed in the towelling bathrobes we’d put on after our shower. “Haven’t seen it in years,” I added. “Can't believe they’re repeating it. Didn’t you watch Just Good Friends when it was on?”  
  
Mark yawned. “I had better things to do: count potatoes, watch grass grow, pull my—”  
  
“Very funny. Well, Vince and Penny were my very first Ross and Rachel. He jilted her at the altar and then they bumped into each other five years later and they—”  
  
“Let me guess: they fell in love again. How utterly ridiculous,” Mark said disdainfully.  
  
I playfully elbowed him in the ribs. “Where’s your sense of romance?”  
  
“Says the love of my life who is wearing an engagement ring from Tiffany.”  
  
“Hah! I’m feeling too lazy to get up from this sofa, Mark.”   
  
“Suppose I said I have a present for you to open now?”  
  
I immediately sat up and turned to look at him.  
  
“Generally, I prefer to buy gifts which I hope will be of some use to their recipients—”  
  
And don’t I know it, I thought, remembering last year’s set of Le Creuset pots. Yes, they’re absolutely lovely (Mum cooed over them for hours) and they’re not cheap. However, couldn't help feeling he was dropping a hint about my cooking skills. Or lack thereof.  
  
“—and that’s the one I’ll give you on Thursday. But I also wanted to buy you something a little more glamorous for tonight.”  
  
“Where is it?”  
  
He smiled. “Thought you were watching Just Good Friends?”  
  
“Vince and Penny get married in the end. Roll credits.” I tugged him up. “Go get my present.”  
  
We walked over to the bed hand in hand. Mark opened his suitcase, pulled out a beautifully wrapped gold package and handed it over.  
  
"Merry Christmas, darling Bridget,” he said with a smile.  
  
Felt a bit bad. “Your present’s in the car. Sorry. I didn’t know we were—”  
  
“It’s OK. You’ll see why when you open it.”  
  
Sat on the bed and carefully unwrapped his gift. Inside was black lingerie. Designer black lingerie, to be precise. The label said Stella McCartney. I gasped and cautiously lifted it out, leaving the box on the bed.   
  
I held up a stretch-lace chemise that looked as if it would leave very little to the imagination thanks to the plunging V-neckline and very suggestive sheerness. It must have cost him a pretty penny. Couldn’t help but be impressed.  
  
Giddy with delight, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him enthusiastically.  
  
“Mark, it’s gorgeous!”   
  
“I’d love to see it on you,” he smiled.  
  
“OK. Back in a sec.” Sauntered into the bathroom, removed my robe and slipped on his present. It was a little snug in the bust area and because it was see-through, my preference would definitely be to wear it with knickers in the future. However, really liked what I saw in the mirror.  
  
In the time I’d been in the bathroom, Mark had turned off the TV and selected soft lighting for the bedroom. I glanced over to find him sitting up in the four-poster bed waiting for me.   
  
Walked over and gave him a twirl. “It’s a teeny bit close in the—”  
  
“It’s perfect,” Mark said, eyes raking over every part of my body. “Christ, your breasts look amazing in it. Happy Christmas to me!”  
  
He slid across, lifted the covers and patted the mattress. “I’ve warmed this side for you.”  
  
I padded over and slipped in beside him.  
  
“To think our Virgin Queen stayed in this very room and never got around to making the beast with two backs. Unlike us.”  
  
“Mark!” I exclaimed in mock shock. “Royalty slept here.”  
  
He leaned in and dropped the softest of kisses on my lips. “Is that reverential enough for you and Good Queen Bess?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” I smiled.  
  
“Good,” Mark replied as our hands roamed over each other's bodies. “Because your present has made me harder than a steel rod. And now in the parlance of a Tudor lord, come here, you comely wench!” And with that, he pulled me on top of him.

**Christmas Day**

**  
7.37 am. Mum and Dad’s.  
  
** Shit! Am late for school!  
  
**7.39 am.** Silly Bridget. There’s no school on Christmas Day! And anyway, self left school well over 20 years ago.  
  
Whenever I sleep here, sometimes wake up thinking I’ve forgotten to do my maths homework too. Probably because self’s bedroom has barely changed from school days. My single bed certainly hasn’t; mattress is so hard, I’d rather sleep on concrete. Stark difference to that lovely four-poster bed in Fawsley Hall.  
  
**7.41 am.** Always strange to wake up without Mark whenever we’re v. intimate the night before. He dropped me here around two-ish yesterday but, after saying hello to Mum and Dad, didn’t stay long. He said he had “things to attend to” at home.  
  
Didn’t ask, but I knew he was going to his parents’ to work before he comes for Christmas lunch. Gut feeling a tiny part of Fawsley Hall served as a much grander venue for my latest ‘sorry’ shag.  
  
**7.49 am.** Shot out of bed in a panic. Where is Woolworths bag? Where is it?!? Oh God, officially panic stations! All the nice Christmas cards I bought from Woolies and spent ages writing up are in it. Where is Woolworths bag? Gaaaaah!  
  
**7.51 am.** Have left all the Christmas cards in London. Shit. Now recall how it happened: when I got back from Tesco, I took the Woolworths bag out of my suitcase because I wanted to make sure Mark’s card was in there.  
  
At that very moment, Mark arrived and got all horny. Afterwards, we hit the motorway and I forgot all about the Woolworths bag.  
  
Am a sex-crazed harlot who put a shag above cards marking birth of baby Jesus.  
  
**7.52 am.** Oh God. Will have to drive to a petrol station and buy awful, cheap-looking cards which, ironically enough, cost a bloody fortune.  
  
**7.55 am.** And petrol stations never have cards especially for individual family members; they usually just sell ones which say ‘Merry Christmas’ and are blank inside. And if you buy them, people think you didn’t care enough to get them a card with nice words specifying their relationship to you.    
  
**7.59 am.** Not driving to a petrol station – can’t be arsed. Will just have to post my cards to everyone when I get back to London. Merry fucking belated Christmas.  

**  
Christmas Day**

_9st 4 (oh, fuck off!), alcohol units (off the scale), cigarettes 12 (Dad’s a bad influence), calories (how many more days can self say, ‘lots and lots. It’s Christmas’?), rubbish presents 2 (a girdle from Granny and_   _an electric toothbrush from Una and Uncle Geoffrey)._

**11.02 pm. Mum and Dad’s.**

  
This Christmas was like that Clint Eastwood movie: the good (my Stella McCartney chemise and engraved sterling silver Tiffany pen from Mark), the bad (Granny’s girdle) and the ugly (constant wedding talk from everyone – including Mark).

After breakfast and earnest apology for card fiasco, we opened our presents; highlight was £100 Debenhams gift card from Mother. A fab gift for a change. Hurrah! Dad got me a crate of Chardonnay. Double hurrah!  
  
Immediately afterwards, Mum started on the lunch and the Christmas nibbles. The appetisers, and I use the term very loosely, were from a time when cheese, pickles and pineapples on toothpicks were the height of gastronomic sophistication.  
  
The turkey was so huge, it looked as if it wouldn’t fit in the oven. “Are you expecting everyone in Scotland for lunch, Mum?” I asked. Received a withering look in return and a waspy reminder about the turkey curry buffet.  
  
Una and Uncle Geoffrey turned up just after noon: former headed for the kitchen, latter for the alcohol.  
  
With Mark due later (Mum gave him strict instructions to come before the broadcast of The Queen’s Christmas message), this was going to be a relatively quiet Christmas Day. Or so I thought.   
  
“Bridget!” Mum snapped. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times: when you’re peeling sprouts, cut a cross cut into the bottom of them.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“It helps them cook evenly,” Una interjected.  
  
“But won’t the cross make the sprouts waterlogged?” I queried.  
  
“When you’re married to Mark and cooking me Christmas lunch, you can serve sprouts as hard as you like, Bridget. Until then, cut the cross into the sprout, there’s a good girl,” she said in a tone sharp enough to slice concrete.  
  
Una carried on peeling potatoes. “To think we first put our little Bridget and Mark together in this very house five years ago, Pam.”  
  
“And we’re still waiting for the wedding,” Mum tutted.  
  
“Can’t put it off forever you know. Tick-tock-tick-tock,” Una agreed.  
  
I put the last peeled sprout into the bowl and excused myself. If they were going to talk about me as if I wasn’t there, I might as well not be.  
  
Popped into the living room only to fall foul of a clearly tipsy Uncle Geoffrey.  
  
“There she is!” He spread his arms in a manner clearly signalling he wanted a hug. “My little Bridget. Not so little now though, eh? Come and say hello.”  
  
Plastered a grin on my face. “I said ‘hello’ an hour ago, remember? I’m looking for Dad, Uncle Geoffrey.”  
  
“Gone for some homemade beer in the cellar.”  
  
“Thank you. Back in a sec.” I took off out of there like an Olympic sprinter.  
  
Found Dad having a sneaky fag so I sat down and joined him. “How’s the beer?” I asked after taking a long drag on his cigarette.  
  
“Fine,” Dad beamed. “But next time I’ll use dextrose sugar instead of granulated. How’s it going upstairs?”  
  
“Uncle Geoffrey’s well on his way to getting pissed, Mum’s pissed off with me and Una’s in her customary UN peace envoy role.”  
  
“All’s right with the world then,” he chuckled. Maybe something showed on my face because he followed it up with: “Don’t mind your mother, Bridget. She’s just anxious about her Christmas lunch.”  
  
We smoked in silence for a minute and then I said, “Dad, are you and Mum happy?”  
  
He took a deep breath. “Your mother, Bridget, she’s a typical English rose.”  
  
I took the fag off Dad again and waited for him to continue.  
  
“By that I mean, some plants and flowers are best avoided if you don’t enjoy gardening. Roses, for example. They look lovely and they smell lovely but they need a lot of care and attention: manure rich compost, pruning, good drainage and sunshine. High maintenance, that’s what they are.”  
  
Couldn’t help smiling at the analogy.  
  
“But if you lavish care and attention on them, you’ll be rewarded with the most wonderful bloom – and there’s no better feeling.”  
  
“Maybe I’m more like her than I like to think,” I said, flicking ash in the ashtray.  
  
Dad looked at me intently before sipping his beer. “When someone loves you, pet, it's like having a blanket all round your heart. And Mark adores you.”  
  
I sighed. “I know. I love him too, Dad. So much.”  
  
“But?” he prompted.  
  
“But . . . we haven’t spent much quality time together at all this year - he’s always working, he’s always putting work before me – before us. I want to support him because I know his work is important, but I don’t want next year to be like this year. I can’t go through another year like this one; it gets very lonely for me at times.”  
  
Dad put a comforting arm around me. “Who’s to say next year will be like this one, me’dear?”  
  
Bless him for trying.  
  
“Unfortunately, it’s already heading that way. This may be my new normal with Mark and if it is – I don’t want it.”  
  
He frowned. “Didn’t you have a nice time together at Fawsley Hall?”  
  
“Yes, but even on our one night away together, our first in months, he still worked. I bet he’s working right now – on Christmas Day! Most of the time I’m waiting for him to meet me somewhere, a party, a restaurant, a concert, and then he cancels and I’m on my own until he turns up at my flat later on to sha— until he turns up at my flat.”  
  
“Oh dear,” Dad said and took back his cigarette.   
  
I’d started and I couldn’t stop. “And if you think that’s bad, wait until you hear about what happened on his birthday. I planned and prepared a party – a very private party just for the two of us, if you know what I mean. There was a cake, decorations, candles – the works.”  
  
“Very nice.”  
  
“Not quite. It was supposed to be a private party so the only thing covering my modesty was an apron. I opened the door expecting to see only Mark there, but he’d turned up with a whole load of lawyers from work.”  
  
“Oh my godfathers!”  
  
“On his birthday, Dad. With me naked as a jaybird.” I took his fag and had a puff. “Never felt so embarrassed in all my life.”  
  
“Didn’t Mark call ahead about the lawyers?” Dad asked.  
  
“It slipped his mind because he was so focused on that case. What he didn’t know is that I was naked.”  
  
“Oh my godfathers,” he said again. “Sounds like an episode of The Benny Hill Show. Me and Geoffrey used to love a bit of Benny Hill.”  
  
“Yes, I know.” Looked at him and sighed. “Dad?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
“Have you ever felt unhappy enough to think of leaving Mum?”  
  
There was a pause. “It’s Christmas Day, Bridget. Don’t do anything rash; take some time to think.”  
  
I crossed my arms. “All I’ve been doing is thinking – all year.”   
  
“None of us knows what the future holds. But you’ll know what to do when the time comes.” He gave me a reassuring hug.  
  
“Thank you, Dad.”  
  
“Everything will work out in the end, you’ll see,” he said and kissed me on the cheek. “I suppose we’d better get back to Uncle Geoffrey before he drinks us out of house and home.”

**  
Later**

 

Was coming down the stairs just as the doorbell rang. Yelled to Mum that I’d get it (“Don’t shout on Christmas Day, Bridget!”) and opened the door to Mark who’d come bearing gifts.  
  
“Hello, darling,” he beamed. “Merry Christmas.”  
  
“Hi,” I smiled back. “Merry Christmas. Quick, come in! It’s bloody freezing today.”  
  
Mark entered, wiping his feet on the mat. Couldn’t wait to shut the cold away. Brrrrrrr!  
  
“Give me your scarf, gloves and coat and I’ll hang them up before—” Stopped dead when I turned around and saw what he was wearing underneath the coat he’d taken off: a bright green knitted jumper with a little pug dressed as Father Christmas and the words ‘Merry Pug-mas’ emblazoned across the front.   
  
“I see your mother is keeping up her grand tradition,” I said wryly as I hung up his garments.  
  
“She’s not here in person but she’s here in spirit,” he grinned, reaching once again for the big bag he’d brought containing neatly-wrapped Christmas presents.  
  
I pointed at it and grinned. “Is there something in there for me, Santa?”  
  
“There might be,” he teased, dropping it again so that he could pull me tight against his body. “Something firm, something hard.”  
  
“Ooooooh. There’s definitely something in there for me,” I said and looked down at his trousers. “Something firm and hard. I can feel it.”  
  
“Oh, if only you would,” he murmured. “Mark my words, if I had my way, I’d definitely be coming down your chimney tonight.”  
  
“Bad Santa,” I giggled. A second later, we were passionately snogging against the front door.  
  
Suddenly the living room door opened and Mum appeared: “Bridget, can you remember where I put the box of chocolate liquors that . . .?” 

We guiltily sprang apart, as if we were teenagers who’d been caught making out on the sofa by our parents.  
  
“Sorry?” I feebly covered.  
  
“Oh, hello, Mark. Merry Christmas. Didn’t see you there,” she lied. “The chocolate liquors Granny bought from British Home Stores, Bridget. Do you remember where I put them?”  
  
“I think I might have left them in my bedroom. I’ll be right back,” I cried, bolting up the stairs in record time. Sat on my bed for a second, breath coming and going in unsteady pants. A couple more minutes and Mum would surely have seen Mark’s hands where hers haven’t been in decades. Told self to be more poised or this was going to be an even longer bloody day than it already was.   
  
When I slunk back downstairs five minutes later, Mum and Mark were in the living room making polite conversation and pretending nothing had happened.  
  
“Got the chocolates,” I said and handed them over.  
  
“Thank you, Bridget. Make yourself useful and get Mark a sausage roll before Her Majesty starts speaking.”   
  
“Thank you, Mrs Jones, but I’m fine,” he insisted, all politeness. “I’m saving room for the excellent Christmas feast to come.”  
  
Saw Mum flutter at that. Good one, Mark. He really doesn’t have to do much to have her wrapped around his finger. It’s almost unfair.  
  
“Would you like a Christmas tipple? Bridget, make yourself useful and get Mark some sherry.”  
  
“Sherry, Pamela? It’s Christmas - let the boy have a real drink,” Dad said, picking up the decanter. “Whisky, Mark?” So funny to hear him refer to Mark, who is in his early 40s, as a boy.   
  
Mark walked over to the drinks trolley where Dad was standing and Uncle Geoffrey was permanently parked. “A double, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”  
  
“No trouble at all,” Dad replied.  
  
Just then, Una popped her head around the door. “Come and have a look at your gravy, Pam. I think it’s going to need thickening.”  
  
“Of course it doesn’t need thickening. Just stir it, Una,” Mum countered indignantly. I saw a meaningful look pass from one to the other, and then Mum twigged. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there. Sorry, limpid gravy calls.”  
  
Exchanged a shrug with Mark; we knew they were up to something, we just didn’t know what.  
  
“A white Christmas this year. Wish I’d put a bet on it now,” Dad lamented.  
  
Uncle Geoffrey, whisky in hand, pointed at Mark’s jumper. “I see Christmas has gone to the dogs!” He laughed heartily at his own joke.  
  
“How’s work, Mark?” Dad asked.  
  
Felt myself inwardly sighing.  
  
“An ever-expanding caseload, Mr Jones. Currently trying to free a journalist imprisoned in Muribundi - it’s taking up a great deal of time,” he said and took a sip of his drink. “They do not celebrate Christmas over there so I had to work last night and this morning.”  
  
Working. Just as I suspected.  
  
Dad couldn’t keep the admiration out of his voice. “He’s very lucky to have you in his corner.”  
  
“I’ll probably have to fly out there soon, Mr Jones,”  
  
“You be careful and watch yourself.”  
  
“He’s a grown man now,” Uncle Geoffrey chipped in, slapping Mark on the back. “Far cry from the young whippersnapper our little Bridget used to run after naked. And still doing so, eh? Off they run, wheeeeeeeeeee!”  
  
“No better man for my darling girl.”   
  
“I’m the lucky one, Mr Jones,” Mark responded with a quiet smile in my direction.  
  
“That’s quite enough poofy nonsense for now,” squiffy Uncle Geoffrey declared. “The Jocksshh don’t do mussh right, but by heaven they make the best Scotch.”  
  
“Criminal fingerprinting, Billy Connolly, John Logie Baird, Auld Lang Syne – the Scots haven’t done too badly,” Mark countered. “But yes, this single malt definitely gets my vote.”  
  
“A man after my own heart.” Uncle Geoffrey announced and inspected the liquid in his glass. “Bloody fine body, but I don’t have to tell you about fine bodies, eh young Darcy? Look at our little Bridget – all grown up.”  
  
Hoping to shut Uncle G. up, I picked up a tray of food and played hostess.   
  
“Stuffed egg, anyone?” Wanted Scotty to beam me up from this madness, but there was more to come.  
  
“Happy fifth anniversary on Sunday, Bridget and Mark!” cried Una.  
  
“We have a little surprise,” Mum said. “Two more for Christmas lunch. Look who’s here!” She led a somewhat embarrassed Admiral Darcy and Mrs Darcy into the living room.   
  
“Good God!” Mark exclaimed, walking over to his parents. He shook his dad’s hand and kissed his mum on the cheek. “I really wasn’t expecting to see you both until the New Year.”  
  
“I told Pamela we’d be back on Christmas Eve when we booked our cruise, Mark,” Geraldine explained. “That’s when she suggested we surprise you and Bridget.”  
  
“No dancing Harry hoofters this year, eh Pam?” Uncle G said with a wiggle of his hips.  
  
Ewww.  
  
Geraldine continued. “We stayed at a hotel in case you and Bridget wanted some privacy.”    
  
“I’m absolutely flabbergasted,” he told her.  
  
I joined Mark by the sofa where his parents were still standing. “Merry Christmas, Admiral Darcy, Mrs Darcy.”  
  
“Merry Christmas, Bridget. I see Mark’s wearing the jumper I bought him. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten yours.”  
  
“Super,” I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster.  
  
Dad surveyed the scene before him. “Would you like a drink, Admiral Darcy? Geraldine?”  
  
“Yes please, Colin. Whisky for me. Geraldine’s been known to toast Her Majesty with a small glass of sherry following the Christmas message.”  
  
“It’s nearly time for the speech. Shall we all sit down?” Mum trilled as Dad headed back to the drinks trolley.  
  
“How was the trip, Father?” Mark asked.  
  
“Very smooth. Plain sailing all the way. Good to be back in Blighty though.”  
  
“Malcolm, I believe Mark was asking about the Mediterranean cruise itself not the roughness of the sea!”  
  
“Ah!” Admiral Darcy patted his wife’s hand. “The cabin crew all spoke the Queen’s English, son.”  
  
Geraldine Darcy tutted at her husband. “Spectacular sights, lovely food and decent weather, Mark. We particularly enjoyed the day trip to Capri from Naples and the excursion to the wine-making villages in the French countryside.”  
  
“I was 17 when I enlisted in the Royal Navy; old habits die hard, Geraldine.” He turned to his son. “Your mother knows me like the back of her hand. That’s 45 years of marriage for you. Talking of marriage, when are you two naming the day? I’m not getting any younger and—”  
  
“Stuffed egg, Admiral Darcy?” I hastily interjected, shoving the tray under his nose.  
  
He looked down at the unappetising array. “No, thank you. I’m saving room for the turkey. Now then, about that wedding—”  
  
“Cheese and pickled onion stick, Mrs Darcy? Or perhaps you’d prefer a cheese and pineapple stick?”  
  
“No, thank you, Bridget. I’m fine with my sherry.”  
  
Of course Mum had to put in her tuppence worth on the subject. “Can’t believe it’s five years since myself, Una and Geraldine first had the idea of putting you two lovebirds together, Bridget. Didn’t we do well?”  
  
“Such a wonderful match,” Mrs Darcy agreed.  
  
“Mark, you must want to hear those ding-dong bells next year, I’m sure,” Una said eagerly.  
  
“Absolutely,” Mark enthused. “We're talking about next year, aren’t we, Bridget?” He looked at me in expectation; big, brown, expressive eyes radiating love and happiness.    
  
Stomach started doing somersaults. Felt helpless – walls closing in on me like the garbage compactor bit in Star Wars. Wished I was imprisoned with Han, Luke and Princess Leia instead of trapped in Grafton Underwood with so many BriMark marriage monomaniacs.  
  
As if my fervent prayer had been heard and answered, help came from an unlikely source.  
  
“This is BBC One. Now at three o’clock, Her Majesty The Queen . . .”

 


	5. Chapter 5

 

**11.26 pm.**

  
Went downstairs for more Chardonnay.  
  
Now upstairs with the rest of the bottle.  
  
Christmas is over for another year. All the pressure we place on ourselves to make this one day perfect – to buy nice gifts, to get the turkey right, to not serve lumpy gravy, to purchase the best mince pies - and it’s over before you can say, ‘pass the sprouts’.  
  
Trying to picture myself making Christmas lunch for me, Mark and our children: image refuses to materialise.  
  
Would like to think this is because am traumatised by various Jones Christmases past, and present, rather than ponder possibility self’s brain is rejecting a future with Mark.  
  
  
**Sunday 28 December  
  
**_9st 1 (Have lost three pounds in three days. How? Oh, who the fuck cares!), alcohol units (glug-glug-glug), cigarettes 8 (moving in the right direction for New Year’s resolution), calories (drowning in them. Is self pregnant?)._  
  
**  
6.10 am. My flat.  
  
** Mark drove us back to London yesterday morning. Was so good to be home - felt human again. As soon as we’d dropped our luggage in the bedroom, he was all over me.  
  
“Mark, it’s only been three days!” I laughed around his kisses.  
  
“It’s been bloody agony,” he said, lifting me up and throwing me down on the bed.   
  
We spent the rest of the day shagging. And the night too. Obviously.  
  
“Just realised it’s way after one in the morning,” Mark said softly as he spooned up behind me, finally ready to sleep. “Happy fifth anniversary, darling.”  
  
“Happy fifth anniversary,” I replied as he kissed my back and shoulder.  
  
Mmmmm. _  
  
_

****  
6.42 pm.  
  
**** Kiss recreation night! So excited. Can’t believe it’s been five years since I ran after Mark in my knickers. Have decided to put nagging doubts aside and set the wedding date; am marrying Mark Darcy next year. Will tell him after I snog his arse off tonight. Our relationship isn’t perfect but—  
  
Oooh, goody! Mobile ringing. Took a drag on my fag and answered.  
  
Was Tom calling to ask me out for a drink.  
  
“Can’t tonight,” I said with genuine regret.      
  
“Bridget, you can spread your legs for him any night of the week. I haven’t seen you in ages,” he pleaded. 

“It’s me and Mark’s fifth anniversary. Remember? Got something special planned. I’m recreating our very first kiss, Tom.”   
  
“Oooh! Like it. OK, fine, you’re excused. I’d nick that idea but as my first kiss with Eduardo took place in the toilets in G-A-Y, it’s lacking in the romance department.”   
  
Had to snigger at that. “Just taking a puff on my fag, Tom. How are you and Eduardo anyway?”   
  
“I’m nearly 40 and I think I’ve finally found my first real boyfriend,” he admitted. “Don’t laugh, Bridget, but I frequently find myself fantasising about a civil partnership and even children one day. The kind of things you straights take for granted.”   
  
“Oh, Tom! Why would I laugh? I think that’s lovely,” I cried warmly. “When it happens, I’ll be godmother. Again.” Dragged on my fag and flicked some ash into the ashtray.    
  
“Let’s not talk about it any more – don’t want to jinx it. How was the Sit Up Britain party?”  
  
“That feels like ages ago now. What I can remember of it was OK. Daniel came back to my place.”  
  
“You fucking shagged him?” Tom gasped. “But you’re engaged to poor poker-up-the-arse Mark Darcy.”  
  
Got all indignant. “I did not shag him! I would never do that to Mark. We had a couple of drinks and a couple of fags and we talked and we agreed to be friends only.”  
  
“Friends with Daniel? Have you completely lost your mind? He’s fucking gorgeous!”  
  
“Yes, he is. But it’s Mark I love.” Took another drag on my Silk Cut.  
  
“Bridget, are you trying to star in your own version of When Harry Met Sally? Men and women can’t be friends if they’re attracted to each other!”  
  
Shrugged to myself. “We failed as lovers. I want us to try again as friends. Daniel makes me laugh and he’s good company. Underneath that self-centred exterior, he does care about me in his own way.”  
  
“Please invite me over when your sexy new friend meets your insanely possessive fiancé. Can we arrange mud-wrestling for their next fight?”  
  
“Very funny.”  
  
“So how was your anniversary morning?” he asked. “What did Mark get you?”  
  
“We spent the first part in bed. Mark had planned for us to have an anniversary tea at Claridge’s, but Jeremy called and he had to cancel. Something urgent to do with his latest case and—”  
  
“He had to cancel Claridge’s? Oh, Bridge. What a bloody shame! Who cancels Claridge’s?”  
  
“Sore subject, Tom,” I sighed and puffed on my fag. “But just as he was leaving, got a delivery; a huge bunch of beautiful, long stemmed red roses and a pair of Elsa Peretti heart earrings from Tiffany. To say my anniversary present saved his skin is putting it very, very mildly.”  
  
“Your fiancé’s gifts are improving, I must say. Can’t believe he got you a set of pots for Christmas last year! So are you all set for tonight?”   
  
Stubbed out my cigarette. “Everything’s ready. Mark’s meeting me outside the stationary shop at eight o’clock.”   
  
“Almost wish I could be a fly on the wall. Do you think he suspects? After all, it is an odd place to meet for a date,” Tom said.  
  
“He knows. Like you said, too odd a place to meet so I had to tell him the reason we’re meeting there. He knows it’s for our anniversary, but he doesn’t know I’m recreating our kiss.” Took a deep breath then took the plunge: “He also doesn’t know that I’m setting the wedding date; I want to marry him next year. I’m telling him after the kiss.”   
  
“Omigod!” Tom squealed. “Tonight’s the night in every way. With any luck, it’ll be snowing and horribly romantic and even though you’re marrying a boring arse who’s always going on about work, I’m cheering for you like Gwen Stefani in the Hollaback Girl video.”   
  
“Thanks. Mark’s not boring. He’s just a bit socially awkward at times.”   
  
“If you say so. I know he’s fucking good in bed.”  
  
“How do you know?” Was intrigued to hear the answer.  
  
“It’s been five years. If he was crap, you would’ve said something to us by now and bought loads of self-help books. I looked at your shelves last time I was there – nada. Ergo, he makes you gush like a geyser.”  
  
“Tom!” I exclaimed.  
  
“Oh, you love it really,” he teased.  
  
“You’re terrible.”  
  
“Yes, I am. Right, I’d better toodle-oo. Congratulations for tonight, Bridget. Call and tell me all about it.”

 **  
7.37 pm. My flat.**  

  
Make-up done, kiss recreation outfit complete and hair brushed – I’m ready. Here comes the bride, dum-da-da-dum! Self is getting married next year. At last!  
  
**7.38 pm.** Bridget Darcy.  
  
**7.39 pm.** Bridget Jones-Darcy.               
  
**7.40 pm.** Mrs Darcy.  
  
**7.41 pm.** Mr and Mrs Darcy.  
  
**7.42 pm.** Lord and Lady Darcy.  
  
Wonder what we’ll do when we— Oooh, goody! Telephone ringing.  
  
“Hello?”   
  
“Hello, darling. Thank goodness I caught you.” Could hear the relief in his voice.   
  
“Mark? Why are you calling me on the landline?”  
  
“Your mobile’s going to voicemail. Wanted to make sure I got hold of you because I’m running slightly late.”  
  
Told self to stay calm. “Where are you?”  
  
“Still with Jeremy and some officials from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Urgent discussions about the Muribundi case – it’s taken a rather dramatic turn. Not for the better, I’m afraid. Look, I won’t be much longer. I’ll see you outside the stationary shop at 8.30pm.”  
  
From nowhere, felt the need to say something. “Mark?”  
  
“Yes?”  
  
I chickened out. “Nothing. See you at 8.30pm.”  
  
“See you then.”  
  
Hung up the receiver and immediately looked for my mobile phone. No wonder Mark couldn’t get through – dead battery. Deader than a dodo. Dead, dead, dead. Shit! It hasn’t been charged since we returned to London. Fucketty, fucketty fuck. Have to leave soon. Will charge for 20 minutes.

 **8.39 pm. High Street.**  

It’s cold and the snow that's falling is in flurries. Am freezing my tits off. Seems 20 minutes wasn’t long enough to charge my bloody mobile; had to call Mark from the landline to tell him I’m on my way to the stationary shop. Got his voicemail.  
  
Trying to stay warm by walking up to the postbox and then back to the stationary shop.  
  
Where the fuck is he?  
  
**8.51 pm.**  
  
Grrrrrrr. When I think of self rushing around like a blue-arsed fly to get ready for this big night and he’s going to turn up late again, apologise and think a shag on our fifth anniversary makes everything alright.  
  
Am absolutely furious. And fucking freezing.

**9.12 pm.**

A couple of people passing by are giving me funny looks. Probably think I’m a patient who’s escaped from some kind of facility as am not wearing an overcoat – just this cardi with a cotton vest top. Where the fucking fuck is he? Can’t feel my feet.

**9.31 pm.**

Just asked the time again - he’s an hour late. Can’t stand here all night – it’s too cold. Need a coffee. And maybe some rum. And brandy. And vodka.

**9.47 pm.**

I’m giving him until 10 o’clock.

**10.08 pm.**

Happy fucking fifth anniversary, Bridget. So much for the kiss recreation. Alone with my thoughts, I had time to think. Going home.

 **11.03 pm. My flat.**  

Still in the clothes worn for the kiss recreation, plonked myself in my favourite armchair cradling a cup of coffee. Feeling has just returned to the soles of my feet. Today started so well and now it’s gone to shit.  
  
Heard a key in the door, listened as it was opened and shut. Pictured Mark hanging up his coat and then . . .  
  
“Hello, darling. Sorry I’m so late. Did you get my messages? Your phone keeps going to voicemail. We had the most awful—”  
  
“It’s OK, Mark. There’s no need to explain. Really. I don’t need to hear it,” I said coolly. “Not any more.”  
  
He started to walk towards me and then stopped, taken aback by an odd sight. “We had the . . . Is that my suitcase?” he pointed.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
He smiled. “Have you booked us on a surprise mini-break? Lovely thought, darling. However with the way this case is—”  
  
“No.” Took a sip of my coffee. “I haven’t booked us on a mini-break. I picked it up from your place when I went to collect my things.”  
  
Told self to keep tone business-like. No emotion. “I’ve packed it for you. Think everything you had here’s in it: your shaving stuff, spare clothes, you had a couple of books too and a—”  
  
“You’ve taken your things and packed mine?” His brow furrowed as my words sank in. “Bridget, I let you down tonight. I’m so sorry this wretched case interfered with our fifth anniversary. I’m rather hoping—”  
  
“I’m so sorry, Mark. I love you, but I can’t do this any more.”  
  
Realisation dawned. He looked ashen. I tried to explain.  
  
“This – us – you’re perfectly happy, I think. Perfectly happy to carry on with things the way they are. Perfectly happy to marry me and have a family with me. You’re perfectly happy. But even though I love you, I’m not.”  
  
Stunned, he sat down on the sofa.  
  
Silence.  
  
The truth was out. The truth will out. It always does. Wanted to speak, but what could I say? He didn’t want to speak, but he knew he had to.  
  
“You’re not happy?” he echoed in utter bewilderment. “How long have you felt this way?”  
  
“Does it matter, Mark?” I asked sadly.  
  
“To me? Yes.”  
  
I sighed. “A while. Months.”  
  
“Months?” He sounded shocked. “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”  
  
“I tried. But you were never really around whenever I felt brave enough.”  
  
“I’m here now,” he said firmly.  
  
“It’s too late, Mark.”  
  
He shook his head. “I refuse to believe that.”  
  
“I know you do. And I’m sorry. I really am. But it’s too late.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because we can't fix what's wrong.”  
  
“We can try,” he stated emphatically. “We will try.”  
  
“It's too late, Mark. I've spent a good deal of this year trying.”  
  
“So let me try.”  
  
“And do what?” I demanded. Despite myself, was curious to hear what he would say.  
  
“Make you happy again.”  
  
“By doing what?”  
  
“Loving you more than I already do,” he stated sincerely. “More than you ever thought possible.”  
  
Closed my eyes for a couple of seconds. It was either that or cry. When I felt more in control of my emotions I responded. “Mark, that won’t fix what’s wrong.”  
  
He still wouldn’t let go. “Do you want some time apart? To think about it, I mean?”  
  
“You’ve already given me more than enough time apart and all I’ve been doing is thinking about it. For months. Day in, day out, thinking-thinking-thinking until I’ve felt as if my bloody brain’s going to explode. I’m not happy, Mark. I’m not happy with the way things have been going – with the way things are between us. I don’t want us to split—”  
  
“Neither do I.”  
  
“I know.”  
  
“So why?” He sounded anguished. “Is it something I’ve said? Something I’ve done?”  
  
Oh God. This is breaking his heart. This is breaking my heart. I’m breaking his heart. Can’t tell him the whole truth – it will devastate him.  
  
“It’s not your fault, and it's not my fault. Not really,” I said in desperation. “It just can’t be helped.”  
  
“What in arse does that even mean, Bridget?” he furiously snapped. “It sounds like some horrendous nonsense from a Hollywood movie.”  
  
Charming. I’m jumping through hoops to spare his feelings, to not say, ‘It's all your fault because I feel so alone! You’re my world, but I’m not yours, you bloody workaholic!’ - and he’s picking holes in my remarks. But of course he is. It’s what he does for a living.  
  
“What I’m trying to say . . . it’s hard to explain, but . . . OK. We're amazing in bed, Mark. Totally amazing. Excellent. And if this was just a sexual arrangement, I’d be shagging you right now. But it’s not. It’s more than that. But I think sex has been covering up the cracks for yonks. Maybe that's why you can't see them, but they're there and I feel like I’ve fallen down one and can’t climb back up. Please understand, Mark. Please.”  
  
Silence.  
  
Unbearable silence.

The one time I wish he wouldn’t fight for me. The one time I was banking on his dread of dealing with emotions he can’t face.  
  
“Don’t you see it’s best if we just end it now before things get even more serious? Before we get married? Before we have children? Before I do this at that point?” My voice broke with the effort of stifling a sob. “Before it means divorce and horrid court custody battles and OK! magazine reporting on the acrimonious split of Sir Mark and Lady Darcy. Before it means ugliness,” I ended on a whisper.  
  
He looked at me, and then he looked away.  
  
The room fell silent again.  
  
Eventually, Mark turned to face me. “I love you, Bridget Jones. Very much.”  
  
I started at that. Felt like he’d stabbed me in the heart. Closed my eyes to shut the pain away. Didn’t trust my voice.  
  
“Bridget, is there even the remotest chance you’ll feel differently in the morning?”  
  
Already knew the answer, but gave him the courtesy of pretending to consider his question before shaking my head.   
  
“Right.” he said.  
  
Minutes passed as we sat in silence.  
  
“Right,” he repeated.  
  
Silence.  
  
The silence was so loud it was hurting my ears. Sat very still in the chair I’d deliberately chosen so that he couldn’t sit next to me and touch me. This was hard enough – a cuddle or a kiss and I would have cracked.  
  
Mark stood and paced.  
  
“This is the end?” he asked eventually.  
  
I nodded.  
  
He stared at me – and then he dropped his head. “In that case, there’s nothing more to say, is there?”  
  
After a minute, he made an effort to compose himself, straightening his shoulders and posture before haughtily announcing, “I’ll tell my parents we’re no longer engaged as soon as possible; Father likes to hear bad news promptly. What are you planning to tell your parents?”  
  
“I’ll just say there were obstacles we couldn’t overcome. It’s not a lie. It’s the truth.”  
  
Dreadful thought crossed my mind. “When are you going to tell your parents?”  
  
“Soon. Why?”  
  
“It’s just that . . . I’d hate Mum and Dad to hear it from . . . anyone else. Thought it might be best if we could possibly do it at the same time.” Saw his face drop even more and hastily added, “Not together. Separately. But at the same time, say, two o’clock tomorrow?”  
  
“Have to pop into the office tomorrow. The Muribundi case. I’m flying out there on the 30th. Was going to tell you tonight but . . . we got sidetracked.”     
  
“Right.” Oh, the irony. “Is there a time that would suit you?”  
  
“Seven o’clock?”  
  
“That’s fine, Mark. Thank you.”  
  
“What about our mutual friends?”  
  
“I’ll tell Magda – that’ll take care of the Smug Marrieds. She’ll probably mention it to Jeremy, but it might be better coming from you.”  
  
“Agreed.”  
  
“OK.”  
  
“I’m going now,” he declared as he reached for his suitcase. I picked up the black velvet ring box I’d placed by my thigh and followed him to the door, watching as he put on his coat and checked his pockets.  
  
“Here are your keys,” he stated stiffly, leaving them on the window sill.  
  
“I almost forgot yours,” I responded, holding them out in front of me. He took them and turned to go. “Mark?” I said as he stretched out a hand for the turn knob on the door lock. He paused and faced me.  
  
We looked into each other’s eyes and then I handed the ring box to him. He took it without a word.  
  
To soften the blow, I added, “Maybe in time we could be friends?” After all, I now had a friend in ex-boyfriend Daniel so this could—  
  
“I don’t think so, Bridget. I can’t be ‘friends’ with you,” he coldly replied.  
  
I flinched.   
  
Mark opened the door and picked up his suitcase again. There was a slight hesitation and then he said, “Goodbye, Bridget.”  
  
“Goodbye, Mark.”  
  
The door closed.  
  
Walked back into the living room, mind in a tumult of emotions. Didn’t know what to do with myself. Just as I had done five years ago, I went to the window and watched him walk away. The next minute, I ran to my front door and flew out of it. Ran down the stairs as if they weren’t there, slamming the door of the building behind me.  
  
“Mark! Mark!” Once again I was running after him in the street, desperately yelling his name. “Mark!”  
  
At last he stopped and turned around. “Good God, Bridget! What are you doing out here dressed like that? It’s freezing.”  
  
“I know,” I panted. “I was going to recreate our first kiss tonight. For our anniversary.” The last thing he needs right now is to know I’d also decided to marry him. “That’s why I’m dressed like this.”  
  
He stared at me. “I would have loved that,” he admitted. “Thank you for letting me know. It’s even snowing. Or rather, flurries, to be precise.”  
  
Pulled my cardigan tighter around me. “Realised I'd forgotten something, Mark.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
“I realised I’d forgotten to kiss you goodbye. Do you mind?”  
  
He thought about it then said, “Not really, no.”  
  
As the snow swirled around us, he gazed into my eyes for what felt like years. We drew together and I felt him wrap his coat around me. Immediately my senses were flooded by his scent - familiar, intoxicating, irresistible. He bent his head and we kissed - a sad kiss, a leave-taking. To anyone watching, we must have looked like the most romantic couple in London.  
  
As we broke our embrace, he said, “The years with you have been the best of my life, Bridget. The very best.”  
  
I sniffed. “After all I’ve said tonight, this is going to sound funny, but I’ve never been happier with anyone than I was with you.” Wiped my nose on my cardi. Disgusting, but needs must. “Will you be OK?”  
  
“I’ll muddle through. Would you like me to walk you back?”  
  
I shook my head. “I’m fine.” Wiped my nose again and added, “If this was a Hollywood movie, we’d be arranging to meet in five years or so.”  
  
From somewhere deep inside him, he found a smile. “Bridget Jones. Ever the romantic and optimist.”  
  
“Mark, I’m so sorry.”  
  
“I’m sorry too.”  
  
“If love alone was enough—”  
  
“Clearly it isn’t,” he said, bending to pick up his suitcase. “Just a friendly reminder: do not put foil-covered items in the microwave. I won’t be there to extinguish the flames.”  
  
“One time. And you still won’t let me forget it.” I smiled wanly.  
  
He reached out and stroked my hair. “Have a good life, Bridget.”  
  
“Take care, Mark. Don’t work too hard.”  
  
After one last penetrating stare, he turned away and strode purposefully up the road. Saw him brush his face with his left hand, as if he was wiping something away. Then he turned the corner and disappeared from view.  
  
I was rooted to the spot. Couldn’t move. Didn’t move for what felt like ages. Was dry-eyed, but my nose was running as I slowly walked back to my flat. Surely it is not normal to not cry over a broken heart?  
  
Five years together. Five years of the most passionate loving and shagging. Five years of planning a future together: marriage, setting up home, kids, our children’s names, family holidays abroad, schools - the works.  
  
And just like that, it’s all over. Gone in an instant.

**12.36 am. My flat.**

Am a singleton again.  
  
**12.39 am.** Thinking of the dinner parties to come; Smug Marrieds will seat me next to chinless wonders named Nigel who work in the City and moan that their half-million pound bonus isn’t enough to live on.  
  
**12.41 am.** Have to make sure Magda doesn’t invite me round when Mark’s there . . . Not even thinking about Valentine’s Day yet, it’s enough to make me weep.  
  
Only, I still can’t.  
  
Fuck all on television. Going to bed.

 **12.47 am.** Can still smell Mark Darcy on my sheets. I’m never washing them again. Hugged a Mark-scented pillow tightly to my body. Closed my eyes and visualised him next to me, smiling at me in that way he has.  
  
**1.32 am.** I’ll never touch his body again. Or melt under his adoring gaze. He’ll never whisper sweet nothings in my ear and nuzzle my neck again. I’ll never hear him say my name or compliment my ghastly cooking ever again. He’ll never kiss me and hold me and make love to me again. Never. Never. Ever.  
  
**2.34 am.** Can’t sleep. I miss Mark Darcy.  
  
**4.28 am.** Smoking a fag. Worst one I’ve ever had. It’s making me feel sick.  
  
**4.31 am.** Just thrown up.  
  
**4.33 am.** Have binned all my fags. Don’t think I could face another cigarette yet. Still haven’t cried. Am heartless bitch with iron heart.  
  
**4.35 am.** Is possible vomit was morning sickness and am pregnant? Really hope so! Will call Shazzer and Jude later.  
**  
5.16 am.** Definitely going to start gym programme today. Will throw myself into fitness regime: aerobics, step class, swimming, power yoga, Pilates etc. Everyone knows the cure for a broken heart is slimmer thighs.  
  
**5.35 am.** Wonder what Mark Darcy’s doing? Must not obsess . . .  
  
**6.42 am.** I miss Mark.  
  
**6.56 am.** Am a spinster. Will avoid certain fate of dying alone and being eaten by pets by never ever owning any. Not even a cute bunny rabbit.  
  
**7.26 am.** Is Mark Darcy thinking about me? Does he miss me too? What have I done? WHAT HAVE I DONE?!? Have broken Mark’s heart. Am like his slut of a first wife except have been faithful and am not Japanese. Keep wanting to call him and say sorry. Will have to delete his number from my mobile or will give in to temptation. **  
  
7.34 am. ** Have made the right decision; can’t go back to Mark when nothing will change. He’ll carry on putting work ahead of me and giving me “sorry” shags and I’ll carry on growing more and more resentful until I hate him. It’s better this way – don’t want to hate him. We can be the sort of amicable exes who put our child first, like Bruce Willis and Demi Moore.    
  
**7.39 am.** I miss Mark Darcy.  
  
**7.43 am.** Too early to call Tom. Hope he’s free tonight. Need a shoulder to cry on. If I ever cry, that is.  
  
**7.48 am.** I want Mark. But I know it’s over.  
  
**  
10.45 am.  
  
** Just over an hour ago, went to the loo. Had a wee and saw the blood when I wiped myself. Maybe deep in there somewhere I couldn’t see was my egg not fertilized by Mark Darcy. Stayed on the toilet staring at the tissue for the longest time. After a while, flushed it and inserted a tampon. And that's when I broke down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Saturday 13 June**

_  
9st 1 (Am shrinking. Hurrah!), alcohol units 2 (v.g), cigarettes 0 (am saving a bloody fortune), calories 1840 (have cut out sugar), boyfriends 0, shags 0 (am considering applying to a convent)._

**  
11.23 am. My flat.**

Today’s the day.  
  
They say life begins at 40, well, I’m not there yet but I’m starting again from this point.  
  
It’s been a while since I last did this and in the six months that have passed: Shazzer’s given me my latest godchildren, twins Ruby and Spike, Jude’s a month away from baby number three and Tom’s still going strong with Eduardo.  
  
Feel like the only single woman in a paired-up world. Think I need to find some new friends or I can also kiss what’s left of my social life goodbye.  
  
For the first time in entire life, all that ‘New Year, New You’ stuff pushed by lifestyle media every January actually applies to me. Have stopped smoking, have cut down on my drinking (the calories!) and am losing weight thanks to new exercise routine. The birth of an obsession is a beautiful thing – and my obsession is me. Throwing all my energy into me. At least it’s paying off.   
  
Back to December and the day after the night before when I had to make the calls I didn’t want to make.  
  
Conversations went like this.  
  
TOM: Bridge!  
  
ME: Hi, Tom.  
  
TOM: You sound dreadful, sweetheart. Have you got a cold?  
  
ME: (sniffing) I’ve split up with Mark – for good this time. It’s not like our really rubbish first split which was over nothing and never ever should have happened in the first place. This is serious; I gave him back his ring last night. The engagement’s off. We’re over.  
  
TOM: I’m coming round right now.  
  
ME: Thanks, Tom. Can you stop off at Tesco?  
  
TOM: How many bottles?  
  
ME: How many have they got?

***********

SHAZZER: Hi, Bridge. Sorry, feel like I’m going to fucking wet myself. Pregnancy is such a fucking bitch. Can I call you back?  
  
ME: This’ll only take a sec. Just wanted to let you know me and Mark have split up. For good this time. It’s serious.  
  
SHAZZER: Fucking hell! What?!?  
  
ME: The engagement’s off. I gave him back his ring.  
  
SHAZZER: Fuck-a-duck! Going to wee and then I’ll call you straight back, OK?  
  
ME: OK.  
  
***********

JUDE: One sec, Bridge. Milo, stop jumping on the bed right now! Because Mummy said so. If you fall off the bed, you’ll hurt your head and Mummy doesn’t have the energy for A&E today. Sorry, Bridge. My fucking kids are driving me up the fucking wall.  
  
ME: Jude, I’ll make this—  
  
JUDE: One sec, Bridge. Give that lipstick to Mummy, Poppy. Mummy doesn’t want you to put it in your mouth or you’ll choke. Sorry, Bridge. Fuck my life! I’m never ever letting Giles shag me again – can’t believe I’m expecting number three. Two’s bad enough. This is the bloody last one, I swear.  
  
ME: Jude, I’ll make this quick. Mark and I have—  
  
JUDE: MILO! Give me that fork immediately! Sorry, Bridge. You were saying?  
  
ME: Mark and I have split for good. The engagement’s off. I gave him back his ring. It’s over.  
  
JUDE: Fuuuuuuuuck! Oh, Bridge. I’m so fucking sorry. For both of you. Mark worships the ground you walk on and I know how much you lo— Milo! Go to the naughty chair right now. Right now, Mummy said! Bridge, let me tie my fucking kids up and then I’ll call you back. Give me five minutes.  
  
ME: OK.  
**  
*********

  
ME: Hi, Mum.  
  
MUM: Oh, hello, darling. How are you? You sound as if you’re coming down with something.  
  
ME: I’m fine. I’ve got some news.  
  
MUM: You’ve set a date for the wedding? At last! Wait until Una hears you’re going to be Mrs Darcy. Mrs Bridget Darcy! I’m so happy. When are you and Mark getting married? I fancy a summer wedding, Bridget. Are you having a marquee? July would be the—  
  
ME: Mum, we’re not getting married. That’s what I’m ringing to tell you.  
  
MUM: You’re not getting married? Are you moving in together? This courtship of yours is moving at a snail’s pace. I thought—  
  
ME: We’re not moving in together either. Listen, I’m—  
  
MUM: Pregnant? You’re pregnant? I’m finally going to be a grandmother? Oh darling, this is wonderful news! Daddy will be—  
  
ME: I’m not pregnant. Mum, are you sitting down?  
  
MUM: You’re not pregnant? Why do I have to sit down? What’s happened, Bridget?  
  
ME: Mum, the engagement’s off. Mark and I are not getting married. We’ve split up. Forever. It’s over.  
  
MUM: I beg your pardon? What are you talking about, Bridget?  
  
ME: It didn’t work out and we’ve split up. For good, this time. I gave him back his ring.  
  
MUM: You gave him back the ring? But you’ve been together for five years! Some marriages don’t last that long. Mark knows that better than anyone thanks to his trollop of a Japanese ex-wife - such a cruel race. You’ve split up?  
  
ME: Yes, we’ve split up.  
  
MUM: Oh, Bridget! He was perfect for you and you were perfect for him. You were perfect for each other. I can’t believe this.  
  
ME: I know you can’t. I can’t either.  
  
MUM: But why? I don’t understand why? Unless you weren’t faithful to each other? And even that doesn’t have to be a reason to end a relationship.   
  
ME: There wasn’t anyone else. Neither of us cheated; we just had issues we couldn’t overcome.  
  
MUM: You young people – no idea how to stay the course. In my day we never broke off engagements, especially if both parties were faithful.  
  
ME: Can you let everyone you’ve previously told about the engagement know it’s over please, Mum?  
  
MUM: But what happens when we next see the Darcys? Do we stop inviting them to the turkey curry buffet?  
  
ME: I don’t know. Haven’t thought that far ahead yet.  
  
MUM: How am I supposed to show my face at the village fête now? Or at the butcher’s? What will the neighbours think? What will Mavis Enderbury and Penny Husbands-Bosworth say?  
  
ME: Thank you for putting social niceties above the well-being of your only daughter, Mother.  
  
MUM: Don’t be silly, Bridget. Of course I’m concerned for you. But this is the last news I was expecting today – we were all eating Christmas dinner together just a few days ago. I broke the turkey wishbone with Mark and he—   
  
ME: My intercom buzzer’s going. Look, someone’s at the door and I have to answer it. Tell Dad I said, ‘sorry’. I’ll call you after my visitor’s gone. Bye, Mum.

***********

After Mark and I parted ways, I was a mess. Well, more of a mess than usual.  
  
The only place I didn’t cry was at work. And when I wasn’t crying, I was eating. Spent the first month in Gianni’s. Literally lived in there binging on pasta, pizza, gnocchi, tiramisu, calamari and Chianti.  
  
Ballooned over 11 stones before Tom, Shazzer and Jude staged an intervention with old photos of eight stones-five-pounds-me in my favourite Karen Millen black cocktail dress.  
  
In the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks and months that followed, everything became about self-preservation. Deliberately avoided almost everywhere that reminded me of us: Grafton Underwood, Tate Modern, Tapas Brindisa in Borough Market, Le Pont de la Tour (not that self can afford to eat there anyway), the Prince Charles cinema, the London Eye, My Old Dutch on the King’s Road, Lucky Voice etc.  
  
My life revolved around work and exercise (it still does), the odd dinner with Tom and Eduardo, the even odder dinner with Daniel and little trips to churches for christenings. Seems self is everyone’s favourite choice for godmother . . .    
  
And then last month, Mum and Dad popped round for a spot of tea. They were in London for the Chelsea Flower Show. I ordered some lovely sandwiches from Pret’s, bought some scones from Tesco, opened a packet of custard creams and laid the table. Voila.  
  
“Doubt we’ll see anything like one of the gardens in 1994, Bridget. It had a grille that blew air up the skirts and dresses of unsuspecting women. Very Marilyn Monroe,” Dad said with a grin.  
  
“Perving at the Chelsea Flower Show? Thought this was one of the more genteel events in the social calendar. I’m shocked. More tea, Mum?” I gestured towards the teapot.  
  
“No thank you, darling,” she said with a pat of her hair. “When are they putting a lift in this building? Those stairs are murder on your poor dad’s knees.”  
  
“Mum, you say that every time, and every time I tell you that it’s never going to happen.”  
  
She looked around. “At least the inside’s nice and cosy.”  
  
I sipped my tea. “I’m thinking of redecorating. I haven’t done much to it since I moved in. It’s time this place had a facelift.”  
  
Dad took a biscuit. “The way prices are moving in London, you’re sitting on a goldmine.”  
  
“I’d never sell it. I like this area too much.”  
  
They asked me about work and I asked after various family members and mutual acquaintances. Once we were all caught-up, we ate and drank in silence for a moment and then Mum startled me by placing her hand over mine.  
  
“Bridget,” she said softly, “Geraldine Darcy called me on Friday; Mark’s getting married next month.”  
  
“What?” I exclaimed in shock. Knew this was serious when Mum didn’t immediately instruct me to say ‘pardon’ instead. Stared at her before glancing over at Dad.  
  
Suddenly realised this was what had brought them to Borough; they weren't here to eat sandwiches and chat about the Royal Horticultural Society. They were here to make sure I heard it personally from them – and not from anyone else.  
  
Brain tried to compute what ears had heard. Brain failed.  
  
“Mark’s getting married?” My jaw dropped so low, it was in Brazil.  
  
“Yes, pet. He’s getting married,” Dad said.  
  
“Who is she?”  
  
“She’s a lawyer. Very respected in her field, apparently. No children,” Mum tartly supplied.  
  
“Where are they—?”  
  
“Chelsea Old Town Hall.”  
  
“When?”  
  
“Next month. The 13th I believe. At midday.”  
  
“Oh. Mark’s getting married?”  
  
Mum was so understanding, it almost made me weep. “Yes, darling. He’s getting married,” she said and rubbed the hand she was still grasping.  
  
We fell silent again. After a minute or two, Mum turned her attention to Dad. “Don’t just sit there, Colin! Get her a drink – she’s had a shock.”  
  
I shook my head. “No, it’s OK. I don’t need a drink.”  
  
Mum ignored me, poured a fresh cup of tea, put three sugars in it and instructed me to drink. It tasted vile. But oddly enough, it did the trick.

“Geraldine told me that Mark asked her to call,” she added. “The Darcys had apparently put the notice in The Times, but I didn’t see it.”  
  
“You said they’d also put it in the Kettering Echo,” Dad prompted. “I had a read Bridget, but I must have missed it.”  
  
Gawped at them. “Mark’s getting married again. Can’t believe it.”  
  
The room fell silent until it was broken by Mum. “Of course it’s doomed to failure,” she said, utter contempt dripping from every syllable. “Marriage to another woman six months after the end of a five-year engagement? A recipe for disaster if ever I heard one. I said as much to Una. She’s either very brave or very stupid to take him on.”  
  
“Mark’s getting married?” I repeated to no one in particular. “He’s getting married. OK, Mark Darcy’s getting married. Mark’s getting married again.” Kept saying it because I still couldn’t believe it.  
  
“I’m sorry, pet,” Dad stated sadly.  
  
“How can he have moved on from me so quickly? I’m the one that left him and I’m still coming to terms with it.” Irrational of me I know, but I felt like Sally after she found out about her ex-boyfriend’s impending marriage in When Harry Met Sally.  
  
Mum and Dad exchanged a look.  
  
“Darling, everyone deals with pain in different ways. You have your way, Mark has his rash, ludicrous and downright stupid way,” she said. “Honestly! You’d think two barristers would have more sense. They’ll both need good divorce lawyers in a couple of years, you mark my words.”  
  
Took another sip of the disgusting tea. “You and Dad should get back to your hotel and rest. You’ve got a busy schedule ahead. I’m fine, honestly.”  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
“Absolutely,” I insisted. Wanted to be by myself and ugly-cry and eat tons and tons of Ben & Jerry's. “Honestly, you don’t have to worry about me, Tom’s coming for dinner. I’ll be fine.” My desperate lie later turned out to be prophetic because he did pop round after they’d left.  
  
As if sensing my mood, Mum and Dad got ready to go. While Mum was in the loo, Dad gave me the tightest of hugs.  
  
“I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong; he still loves you, Bridget. Why else would he ask his mother to call? The poor boy really doesn’t have the best of luck with women: his first wife left him for his best friend and his beloved intended left him after five years. In his shoes, I’d probably do the exact same thing and marry the first woman not to reject me.”  
  
“You think that’s it?” I didn’t notice the tears rolling down my face, but Dad did.  
  
“Without a doubt,” he cooed.  
  
“I miss him so much, Dad. Sounds silly but part of me hoped, in time, we could maybe get back together one day. That’s not going to happen now, he belongs to someone else. I just have to accept that it’s finally over between us.”  
  
“’You and Mark finally over? With that boy’s atrocious record with women? Rubbish!” Dad winked. Had to smile at that. “It’s like Doris Day said: ‘whatever will be, will be. The future's not ours to see’. You keep your chin up. Things will work out for the best in the end, you’ll see.”  
  
Mum emerged from the toilet. “I keep forgetting how horrendous your bathroom is, Bridget. It’s a bigger eyesore than The Duchess of Cornwall.”  
  
“Mother, if you end up catching a glimpse of Camilla at the Chelsea Flower Show, you’ll be just as star-struck as everyone else,” I said as she kissed my cheek.  
  
“Take care, darling. If you need anything, anything at all, Daddy and I are only a phone call away. Come along, Colin,” she ordered briskly.  
  
Dad kissed the top of my head. “Don’t forget what I said, Bridget: que sera, sera.”

**  
Later**

Spent the next couple of hours by myself. I put the telly on but I have no idea what I watched. I think I ate – no idea what I had. Truth be told, I’d been knocked for six; it simply hadn’t occurred to me that he would commit so fully to someone else so soon. I haven’t even had a post-Mark shag yet and he’s already engaged to another woman.   
  
Thing is, I’d convinced myself that we’d find a way back to each other someday. Maybe I liked the serendipity – after all, we’d known each other as children and, after a horrid reconnection over turkey curry, we’d fallen deeply in love as adults. Maybe I refused to believe fate would loosen its grip on us; what better ending could follow our separation than a happy one?  
  
But hope of some kind of reconciliation must be over now. Entirely over. Once again, I had some phone calls to make.  
  
Conversations went like this.  
  
TOM: You have terrible timing, sweetheart. Eduardo’s just come. To clarify, not shag-come. At least, not yet.  
  
ME: Tom, Mark’s engaged. She’s a lawyer. He’s marrying her next month at Chelsea Old Town Hall.  
  
TOM: Wait - WHAT? Don’t move, Bridge. I’m on my way.  
  
ME: Thank you. I’m postponing my nervous breakdown until you get here.

***********

SHAZZER: Hi, Bridge. Sorry, I’m just about to get my fucking boobs out; the twins are sucking me dry. Can I call you back?  
  
ME: This’ll only take a sec. Just wanted to let you know Mark’s getting married again. Not to me – to someone else.  
  
SHAZZER: Fucking hell! What?  
  
ME: He’s getting married next month at Chelsea Town Hall. She’s a lawyer.  
  
SHAZZER: Fuck-a-duck! But it’s been – what? Five months? Six?  
  
ME: Yes.  
  
SHAZZER: Shit. Sounds like a classic case of rebound to me. Probably thinks the best way to get over you is to get another woman under him instead. But how he could possibly . . . Aaaarrrgh! Sorry, Bridge. My babies are screaming the house down. I’ll call you back, OK?  
  
ME: OK.  
  
***********

JUDE: One sec, Bridge. Milo, bring Mummy that nappy please. Because Mummy said so. And stop messing about with that cream – it’s not for you, it’s for baby’s bottom. Milo, watch out for Poppy! She’s crawling behind you. Sorry, Bridge. My fucking kids are testing my last bloody nerve.  
  
ME: Jude, I’ll make this—  
  
JUDE: One sec, Bridge. Milo! I’m not telling you again – do not play with that cream. Leave the powder alone. Because Mummy said so – it’s not for you, it’s for baby. Sorry, Bridge. Fuck my life! Three bloody kids. I’m never ever letting Giles shag me again. This is the last one, I swear.  
  
ME: Jude, I’ll make this quick. Mark’s getting married again. He’s—  
  
JUDE: MILO! Give me that immediately! Sorry, Bridge. You were saying?  
  
ME: Mark is getting married again next month at Chelsea Town Hall. She’s a lawyer, apparently.  
  
JUDe: He’s fucking doing what? What the fuck is he thinking? He’s marrying someone six months after losing you? I know how much he lo— Milo! Go to the naughty chair right now. Right now, Mummy said! Because Mummy said. Bridge, let me change the baby’s nappy and feed Milo and Poppy and then I’ll call you back.  
  
ME: OK.  
**  
*********

**  
10.42 pm. My flat.**

  
Today was the day.  
  
Popped down to Chelsea Town Hall earlier. Not sure why – maybe I needed to see it for myself to really believe it. Judged Habitat to be a safe distance away from the venue; I could look across the road at the grand Old Town Hall and its famous steps, where people like Judy Garland and Patsy Kensit have trod, with relative impunity.  
  
King’s Road was busy as usual, heaving with traffic and people. I didn’t mind as it gave me the cover and protection I needed. Wonder who chose Chelsea Town Hall? Absolutely not the venue I had in mind for our wedding; I pictured a more scenic setting with green fields and a marquee. Not concrete, pavement and roadworks.  
  
Still, they’d picked the perfect Saturday for a wedding in fashionable Chelsea. It was a glorious day – the sun was shining and the temperature was rising. Stood alone watching and waiting as beaming couple after beaming couple streamed past me, hugging, snogging, holding hands and rubbing their Smug Couple status in my face until I wanted to vomit on every part of them.  
  
All of a sudden people started congregating on the legendary Chelsea Registry Office steps. Breathe. Stay calm, whole world about to change, I told myself.   
  
A couple of minutes later, the bride (slim, dark-haired, dressed in white) and groom (Mark v. dapper in a grey morning suit) emerged to cheers and confetti. I watched them kiss and pose as the photographer snapped away – and then I’d seen enough. My heart insisted it could have been us, it should have been us.  
  
Walked to Sloane Square station in a daze. Don’t remember getting on the tube and travelling back to Borough but I did a lot of thinking while I sat in the carriages of the Circle and Northern lines.  
  
This chapter of the BriMark story is over however I’ve dog-eared the pages. Am determined to move forward although I continue to look back because I still love him and I still miss him. Will I ever get over losing my Mr Darcy?   
  
In the meantime, this great journey called life sees me travelling left while Mark travels right. Maybe if destiny is the stubborn bitch I’d like to believe she is our paths will cross once more.  
  
And if so, he’d better not be wearing that bloody awful reindeer jumper.

**THE END  
**

**Author's Note:**

> My third fic, like the previous two, has been sparked by Bridget Jones’s Baby: what happened to Bridget and Mark? Why did they split? That’s how this story started. 
> 
> Briefly considered writing it in the third person, but thought I’d challenge myself to get inside Bridget’s head at this key point of her life. Much prefer the reason for the split in the BJB movie – far more plausible than the book version (Cleaver at their engagement party? Really? No. Not for me). 
> 
> In Bridget’s letter to Mark in BJB she says, “We did the best thing by ending it when we did.” On the one hand, this could imply the decision was mutual. However, everything in the movie suggests workaholic Mark neglected Bridget. Ergo, I choose to interpret it as Bridget instigating the split and Mark having no choice but to go along with it, hence the use of the word ‘we’.
> 
> A little on timelines and dates: BJB is set 10 years from events in BJD, but not 10 years on from that movie’s release date as it would be impossible to dance to Gangnam Style - a UK hit in 2012. It’s all a bit of a head-scratcher when trying to write certain events. In BJB, it's June when Bridget tells Mark she gave up fags “1891 days ago” (interestingly, the screenplay said 691 days) which means she stopped just over five years before then in April. 
> 
> If one assumes she was smoking when they were still together and quit after they split (because, tellingly, she informs Mark – rather than reminds him - that she’s stopped smoking), one could surmise their break-up occurred around that time. 
> 
> And if so, with my story’s timeline spanning five and a half years from break-up to the christening, it’s possible I’ve split them a tad early. I can live with it – especially as continuity isn’t a strong suit with the Bridget Jones sequels. Edge Of Reason’s turkey curry buffet supposedly six weeks after the end of BJD still bugs the hell out of me – but then, just about everything about that movie bugs the hell out of me.
> 
> I haven’t seen any definitive dates as to precisely what month and year they split in the production notes or BJB script. Either I didn’t research fully enough or it isn’t there. I did wonder about the diary entry dated February 20, which I've included, but the list of negatives is written in the present tense. For example: ‘He only buys me presents’ instead of ‘he only bought me presents’. For this reason, I’ve assumed it was an entry fuelled by frustration rather than a post-mortem of their relationship. 
> 
> No idea if the BriMark portmanteau exists, but if not – I’m claiming it as my invention – feel free to use! Also on the time front in this story, although Primark opened their first London store in April 2007, they’ve had branches in England since the 1970s. If you know your Cockney rhyming slang, you'll know what "Harry hoofters" rhymes with. Remember - I didn't say it, Uncle Geoffrey did. Same goes for Pamela Jones and her tendency to be politically incorrect. 
> 
> Chelsea Old Town Hall also goes by the name Chelsea Town Hall and/or Chelsea Registry Office.  
> The names for the children are in the BJB screenplay – I’m definitely not taking credit for ‘Spike’.  
> Writing a story from Mark’s point of view will have to wait a bit longer. . . 
> 
> I am British so Google is your friend for any very British references or expressions. Thanks for reading.


End file.
